Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Bleden Mark first meets the woman who will come to be known as the Archon of the Tiers, she’s a shaking slip of a girl, just twelve years old and looking far too small to be standing in front of the Court of the Archon of Justice. She’s making some argument, defending her parents as they practically cower behind her, but Mark isn’t really listening to what she’s saying. No, he keeps his gaze on Tunon’s mask. It isn’t often that the Adjudicator finds someone he likes.

She’s not even half way through her points, but even some in the audience can tell that Tunon is paying less attention to the matter of her parent’s guilt and more to this girl who seems to know how to manipulate a crowd better than some Archons he knows. Long before she finishes, Mark can tell that Tunon has made up his mind about Tauni Ryolde. Damn, he remembers thinking, he’s really going to keep this one.

It is even less often that the Adjudicator finds someone he wants to keep.

From where he watches, just out of view to all but Tunon, Mark can see that Ryolde is trembling. He’d bet rings that, tucked inside her long, billowing sleeves, her hands clenched into fists to keep them from shaking. It’s when he slips into the shadow cast by her elaborate up do onto her throat to get a better view that he notices the sigil staining her neck, and his blood goes cold. He recognizes that sigil. He knows that sigil. It’s his. All of a sudden, he thinks of the sigil on his own wrist, the strokes of which he can still remember perfectly even two centuries after Kyros buried it under her bindings. Even now, he can still remember the exact shade of pale gold against his skin, the way the curves of his veins forced the lines to bend. He remembers how, sometimes, it pulses with his heartbeat, as integral a part of him as his own blood. Through their bond, he can feel the clench of her jaw as if it is his own, and he wonders at what this means. It would seem this little wisp of an exarch is his soulmate, and it would seem that she will one day be much more than that. His sigil is dark as nighttime against her skin, and at his wrist, her own throbs against the Binding of Shadows like her pulse beats against her mark. A wild talent, then, he thinks, and wonders what she will be able to do. What gifts may reveal themselves in time.

In the end, Tunon lays down his verdict as so: her parents will be declared innocent of their crimes. In return for this mercy, they will relinquish their daughter to the Court.

Ryolde’s parents seem eager enough to let her go. For a brief moment, Mark wonders at that: is it truly possible to be possessing of such potential and not recognize its value? But nonetheless, there are more tears and gestures of sorrow than actual actions on the part of Tauni Inra and Tauni Elan. They are not told what will become of their daughter after they are led away and she is led deeper into the Court, where she will be given a new room and a new life to go with it, but it is easy enough to discern, given where they are, and they do not seem to care either way.

Mark wonders if her service to Kyros will make her parents proud.

(Later, a few years after his sigil has been scraped from her skin, he asks her what her family thinks of her now, and she laughs in a way that sounds hollow, even to him, and bounces forward in a manner that he has become accustomed to seeing from her. 

“What family?”

There are no laws forbidding Fatebinders from knowing their families from before, Mark knows. Still, he does not press further.)

Mark remembers thinking, all those years ago, that the arrival of Tauni Ryolde is going to make life in the Adjudicator's Court much more interesting.

Looking back at things now, the thought makes him laugh louder than he has in centuries.

What an understatement.

The morning after her parents’ trial, Ryolde is woken up by the sound of a fist beating against the door of her new room. It’s barely dawn; there’s only a dim slit of light shining over the roofs of the nearby buildings, and in the twilight, she bumps into her end table and nearly trips over the corner of the rug as she makes her way through the unfamiliar furniture. The fist pounds against the door a few more times before Ryolde finally manages to swing the wood panel open.

The woman who stands at the other side is not really a woman at all, more of a girl. Dirty blonde hair falls around her thin shoulders. Ryolde suspects this girl can’t be much older than she is, but her eyes, where gleam down at her from kohl-painted lids, are far shrewder than her youth should suggest.

The girl grins. “Good, you’re up. Thought I might have to break in and shake you awake myself.”

Bits and pieces of Ryolde’s dream still hang heavy in her mind – flashes of shock and appraisal, the feel of leather creaking under a firm grip, and eyes peering out of the darkness – making her tongue feel thick and stupid. “What…?”

The girl’s gaze remains steady, but Ryolde gets the distinct impression that she’s making a conscious choice not to roll her eyes. “Get dressed. You have an appointment with Myothis,” she says, as if this is supposed to mean anything to Ryolde.

As if anything means anything to Ryolde in this new life she’s somehow talked her way into. Nonetheless, she knows better than to argue. She turns away to do as she’s been told. She pulls on a tunic and trousers from the burau next to her bed, both black and maroon and marked with the same sigil that seems to hang practically everywhere she looks, and ties her hair into a simple bun with a chord she found in her end table. When she opens the door again, the girl doesn’t appear to have moved. She doesn’t say anything, either, just looks Ryolde over from head to toe, nods, and then turns to leave. She jerks her head, once, as she does, as if indicating for Ryolde to follow.

The weighty silence between them continues as the girl, who Ryolde’s deduced must be another Fatebinder, leads her through a maze of hallways that all look the same until Ryolde is very thoroughly lost. Suddenly, after at least five minutes of quiet, the girl sighs, tilting her head to look at Ryolde. “I’m Calio, by the way.”

Ryolde nods, extending her hand. “Ryolde.”

Calio doesn’t take it, and Ryolde wonders briefly if maybe they don’t shake hands this far north. At least Calio’s chuckle puts to rest Ryolde’s fears that she’s committed some kind of unforgivable faux pas. “I know who you are.” Her chuckle fades, but the grin remains. “I was watching yesterday.”

“Oh.” Ryolde isn’t quite sure what to say to that. Not twenty-four hours at Court, and she already has a reputation. They walk in silence for another minute before Ryolde works up the courage to ask. “Where are we going?”

“Where we’re going is a room next to the Archives. I suspect you meant to ask is ‘what’s going to happen to me there?’”  

Ryolde waits a moment before she decides to bite. “And…? What’s going to happen to me there?”

They come to a stop before a heavy oak door. “You’re going to have your soulmark removed.” Ryolde’s eyes go wide, and, completely unbidden, her hand flies to the back of her neck, right under her ear. Calio grins again. “And here we are. Have fun!” The Fatebinder disappears with a small wave, and Ryolde is left staring at the door in front of her. It takes her almost a minute to finally go through.

The woman who scrapes off Ryolde’s soulmark (after tracing it to parchment for the Court archives) is old, almost grandmotherly, but all the kindness on Terratus can’t make the process hurt any less. As the elderly Fatebinder peels Ryolde’s skin off, layer by layer, Ryolde screams so loudly that it’s a wonder the woman doesn’t go deaf. To her credit, Myothis barely pauses in her work, just stuffs a wooden dowel between Ryolde’s teeth and carries on her merry way. Even worse than the feeling of having pieces of her skin removed is the sensation of pulling and tearing as some part of her, deep in her chest, is shorn away. Myothis scrapes Ryolde’s soulbond away with her skin, and, to Ryolde, it feels like the bond takes part of her with it. Ryolde’s jaw aches for days after the dowel is removed from her clenched teeth. Years later, she’ll wonder if the knot under her lungs ever went away, or if she only grew so accustomed to it that she forgot to feel it.

 Over the next couple of years, Ryolde continues to grow and mature under Tunon’s watchful gaze and his own mentorship. He keeps a keen eye on her, out of curiosity if nothing else. The first thing he learns about her is that she is never still. She is always moving, in one way or another, be it the taping of her feet (thinking how the sound must annoy Tunon to no end makes him chuckle) or her fingers, flitting between the hem of her tunic and the end of her sleeves in their endless search for something to do. She’s quick – it’s the first thing he’s noticed – quick to read a room and quick to react in a manner that will best serve her and hers. If he can take that ability and translate it from a ballroom to a battle field, she will be well on her way to wielding a blade with the same ease that she does Kyros’ Law.

Sometimes, she brings a hand to her neck, trancing the scar where his sigil once stained her skin black as night, and Mark wonders what their bond told her of him before it was scoured away. Mark takes a kind of distinct pleasure in the way that, as her training with him continues, she goes from picking at her clothes to spinning a dagger with a trick of the wrist that he taught her. Tunon can’t even break her fingers like Kyros did his when he had the same tick, because then she’d go right back to tapping her feet. The thought makes him viciously pleased.

But it is when she is arguing something, or learning of the laws that govern Kyros’ Peace, that is when she moves the most. Yes, her body may seem relatively still – for her, at least, with her ticks limiting themselves to the tapping of a finger against the parchment or a thumb against a thigh, but as he watches, her eyes practically blur, they’re moving so quickly, and her mind, oh her mind. Mark has never been envious of the Voices of Nerat for a day in his life, but watching Ryolde lean over parchment in a manner more befitting of a glutton before a feast than a student of law, he wonders what it would be like to step into that mind. He imagines it would feel like lightening.

Tunon’s favor of his little apprentice is clear: just the fact that he was willing to interpret the law in such a way as to let him pluck this gem from its nest is enough to show that. Even after she has been ushered into the Court, the special treatment continues: she receives lessons from the Adjudicator himself, and, when Mark gathers the Fatebinders whose training Tunon has entrusted him with, he is not surprised to see Ryolde standing amount them. This little wisp shows potential, especially in matters of law and Tunon’s very exacting form of justice, and it would be a shame for that to be lost simply because some fool is able to slip a dagger between her ribs.

He starts her with two knives. He figures that they’re small and light and fast, and, besides, she’s not large enough for direct combat to be an option for her, not really. No, as he watches her struggle through her training in the great sword and the shield styles, he can also see why Tunon wished for a more personal touch to be given. She’s not exactly used to combat the way most others who come to join the ranks of the Fatebinders usually are, and training her to be a proper soldier would take far too long. Tunon didn’t ask for a soldier, after all. He wants this little wisp to be one of his Fatebinders, and he wants it quickly, and it is for those reasons that he turns to Bleden Mark.

Well, Mark thinks as he watches her shake in a row with the few other Fatebinders Tunon saw fit to throw at him this time around. (He can already tell that at least one of them, the boy with the broad shoulders and light hair who holds himself tense as stone, as if that will hide his fear, will be gone by the end of the span.) By the end of this, little wisp, you will most definitely hate me, but at least it’ll all be good fun.

There is no nice way to make a warrior quickly. There are few enough kind ways to make one slowly, but with the time he has, this will probably not be enjoyable for anyone but him.

In the end, Ryolde is the only one even able to walk away.

 After spending almost a year under the direct training of the Archon of Shadows, Ryolde’s trainers finally recognize the futility of attempting to teach her anything resembling direct combat. They remove the great sword from her training regimen entirely, and begin restricting time spent with the sword and shield to a few times a span.

Were it not a violation of the Overlord’s Laws, Ryolde would thank Kyros herself for the mercy.    

As such, she would thank Bleden Mark, were she not both afraid that he would murder her for the insult and still furious at him for the traumatizing nature of his “training regime.”

Over the years that follow, she spends much of her time in the training rooms honing her craft with the bow, the only weapon she had any kind of experience with prior to her arrival at Tunon’s Court, even though that experience was limited to the kind of formal, stylized archery that nobles so enjoy across Kyros’ lands. Despite her attempts to discount the year she spent with Mark, she also trains with her daggers. While she prefers the bow, now that she can actually be reasonably sure that she won’t gut herself on her own knives, she finds that there is a certain elegance and fluidity to the style that appeals to her. When she picks up the thin, glowing blades, she remembers his voice, ringing next to her ear, the ease at which her plucked his way through the shadows to slip to her side.

Remember, little wisp. You must always be willing to kill your enemy to get what you want. Without that will, you are nothing.

Next to his voice, she remembers the glide of his fingers across her skin as he guided her, remembers the give of flesh against sharp bronze. She remembers the pride that sat in her gut as Mara bled out in front of her. It reminds her of the dreams that plagued her before she came to Court, dark visions of blood and viscera and hunger that should have been horrific nightmares but instead only left Ryolde with a deep sense of satisfaction that made itself at home behind her breast bone as if it belonged there. The dreams disappeared with her soulmark, but the pride remains, and for a time, Ryolde wonders if it was due to her soulbond at all. Maybe there never was anyone on the other end. Maybe it was just her.

It’s probably for the best that she puts what Mark taught her out of her mind, she tells herself. As if ignoring the violent parts of her future profession will make them go away.  

It’s her lessons that she enjoys the most: both her practice with the bow and her practice with her daggers are made more difficult by the memories of where she first acquired such skills, but her interest in learning all there is to know about the Empire whose laws she will one day enforce continues on unhindered. All her life she has been given knowledge, but none of it was ever significant enough to matter. Everything she learned was of pretty words and pretty displays; there was nothing of substance in any of it. Now, however, she learns exactly the laws that define Kyros’ Peace, and what’s more, she comes to believe in it, too. Some of the methods necessary to enforce it may be… distasteful – Bleden Mark’s continued existence and usefulness to Kyros is proof of that – but she comes to see that the order and stability it brings is valuable beyond the lives of any individuals.

One day, she too will look back at that and dismiss it as the naiveté of an idealistic teenager who had no knowledge of what the cost truly was.

Or did the cost only start to matter when the individual paying it was you?

The Archon of Shadows slips back into Ryolde’s life as quickly as he slipped out of it. One day they barely speak, besides trading a few sharp remarks when she passes him in the hall, and the next, he’s standing in the shadows in the training hall and watching, always watching.

 She can feel his gaze on her skin. It feels like a caress, like a finger mapping out the length of her spine.

His silent presence does not remain silent for long. For a time, he simply whispers to her, gives her hints and half formulated ideas on how to more successfully topple the opponent they’ve put before her today.

He’s bigger than you, little wisp. Use that.

She doesn’t have the breath to ask what on Terratus he actually means by that before Nunoval throws her to the dirt.

She remembers how that frustrated her to no end, that he would take the time to tell her something so useless, and that she would be so stupid as to not understand what he meant. She finds her back on the ground at least three more times before she figures it out. The next time he grabs at her, she drops down and rolls. Nunoval’s arms whistle over her head, but manage to catch nothing but a few lose strands of hair, and then she’s behind him. Before he can turn around or even muster a response, she kicks out the back of his knee.

Before his knees hit the dust, she has a dagger at his throat.

Well done, little wisp.

For a moment, she remembers the red of Mara’s blood mixing in with the gold of her hair. Then she remembers the way his touch traced the lines of her wrist, and straightens her shoulders.

He rewards her by running a single finger down the curve of her neck, and she preens.

It is then that Mark decides he’s had his fill of watching her and teaching her from the darkened corners of the room. When she arrives the next day for training, he stands in the middle of the circle of dirt, stark as the shadows he commands, for even the daylight poses no threat to the Archon of Shadows. In the coming spans, as the training continues, she discovers that she likes the days when he teaches her about intimidation most of all. He tells her it’s all about throwing your weight around, kid, come on, it’s not that different from what you’ve been doing with those shiny toothpicks all these years, but it’s not like she has all that much weight to begin with.

And yet.

After all those years of feeling small, it is extremely satisfying to see what she can do to someone when they don’t suspect her.

And they don’t ever suspect her, do they?

One night, a couple of spans after he first showed up in her training arena, he wakes her up with a glowing green blade to her throat.

She screams and screams. She remembers thinking, this is it. This is the day I die.

It's only after the first few moments of silence go by with no sign of retribution from the Archon of Shadows that she realizes this was all a test. She can see the way the shadows have congealed around the bed, sealing away any sounds, but by then, it’s too late.

Mark looks so disappointed that she wants to cry. No, no, I’m sorry, she wants to say. Just let me do it over again, I promise I’ll do better next time. I swear!

The Archon just shakes his head. “You’ve always gotta be ready, kid. When are you going to see that?”

Ryolde can’t say anything, but as he turns to leave, she manages to throw a hand out, as if to stop him. His wrist turns to dark mist before her hand can touch it, denying her even that, and she is left with nothing but palms full of black smoke.

For the first time since her arrival at Tunon’s court, she feels as if she has well and truly failed.

After that night, she takes his lesson to heart in a manner that goes beyond all others: she begins carrying her twin daggers with her at all times, with another one slid into her boot and yet another one tucked underneath her tunic. This time, she swears, she will be ready for him when he comes for her. And come for her he does. Following that night, he takes every opportunity to surprise her. When she’s walking back from training, when she’s leaving the Court, even in the city proper, she is not safe, not truly. She goes into the Market one afternoon about a span later, and on her way back to Court, she feels shadows drag her into the alley. When Bleden Mark’s glowing red visage shines down at her from out of the shadows and under his white hair, she already has her daggers ready and waiting in her palms.

All of those encounters end the same way: with her divested of every weapon she happens to be carrying at the time and with a dagger to her throat, or to her femoral artery, or, at least on one memorable occasion, pressing dangerously into the thin skin under her right eye. But at least she’s trying, and it seems that Mark finds that good enough.

Anything, she will one day remember thinking, anything to be enough for you.

Ryolde really begins catching his eye a few years after she has come to adulthood. She’s still small, his little wisp, but she’s not a girl anymore, not really. She’s grown strong and fierce. She wears armor now, that fits her better than any of her noble robes ever did; armor that sits tight to her skin without clinging to it. She’s even learned to better temper her mouth, if only just, after a few incidents with Tunon that were a bit too close for comfort.

Nonetheless, she is still quick and energetic and moving, always moving. Even with all the ways the Court has managed to force her nervous, ravenous energy into a package that is more acceptable to it, it’s still there, just under the surface. He can feel it sometimes, thrumming through their bond and burning on his wrist. All the ways she wants, things that she cannot have, things that she should not have, things that she will have anyway, if she has anything to say about it, because even after almost six years spent living in the Court, there’s still a part of her that chafes under Tunon’s leash, as long as he’s left it for her.

In a way, she reminds Bleden Mark of himself, just a bit, when he was younger and when he was stupider.

Tauni Ryolde cannot afford to be stupid.

Maybe that’s why he takes it upon himself to… offer her a few more lessons in how, exactly, to survive in this world where so much is out of your control. He thinks on how his little wisp is dangerously close to becoming a little rebel, the one thing that she can never, ever afford to be. She can be ravenous, yes, and exacting in her execution of justice, but never a rebel, never that. He has come to learn that with a clarity that outstrips even his many lifetimes.

So he starts by watching as she trains, letting just enough of his presence seep through the shadows that she knows he’s there. It’s not as if any of her trainers, themselves Fatebinders accustomed to his coming and going around Court, are going to dismiss him. He can see how she reacts to his observant gaze in the way that her back becomes that much straighter, her steps that much lighter, her thrusts that much faster, that much more reckless. She’s trying to impress him, he realizes. That’s probably the cost of her preferential treatment at the hands of the Adjudicator as much as at his own. She’s loyal, yes, but it is difficult to ascertain how much of that is out of love and devotion to Kyros and how much of it is out of love and devotion to the Archon who has given her a home and treated her not as a tool but as a favored pupil.

Mark is no fool. He knows how precarious the situation they now find themselves in is. He can feel her potential beating against his skin with his pulse. In the moments when darkness crowds his mind, Mark suspects that, if he were to know what he knows of her without the bond between them, it would be in the best interests of the Empire that he find a way to end her, and end her quickly.

Luckily for her, the greatest threats she will face are not those of his making, and once he has resumed playing a central role in her training, it is easy enough to slip in other, more valuable lessons in between the forms and repetitious sparring. He teaches her of the shadows, not just how to use them to hide from her enemies, but also how to see them, truly, so that your enemies cannot hide from you. He teaches her intimidation, the importance of appearances (once one has made a first impression, one loses the chance to ever make it again, after all), and how to use her body and her faculties to get what she wants. She’s stronger and quicker than most she’ll meet on her travels, and it will prove useful for her to learn how to throw her weight around, just a bit.

As long as she makes sure not to try to turn it on those that can truly bite her back.

For those, he teaches her the most valuable lesson of all, something that she will never, ever learn from Tunon or any of her tutors: he teaches her how to lie. She already has some familiarity with the concept from her long years of studying Kyros’ law; from her studies, she understands how malleable the truth can be, how easy it can be to slip between the cracks of what is true and what is perceived as true. What he teaches her, however, has little to do with truth at all, but rather how to find it in oneself to speak extravagant lies with such conviction that one can hardly keep from believing them themselves.

She takes to it with the same grace and guile with which she has taken to all of his lessons, even the unpleasant ones.

He remembers, how, when she was younger, it was he who taught her where to sink a dagger so that she can ensure that it will kill, remembers how she shuddered, once, looking on, but after that was still, granting him the same attentiveness she does the Adjudicator when he’s lecturing her on law or some other, much more bloodless, matter. He remembers watching, about a span later, hidden in her own shadow, as she performed her first kill, on one of her own fellow Fatebinders, a girl with ruddy cheeks and flaxen hair who was stupid enough to challenge her but not strong enough to win.

Well done, little wisp, he had whispered to her from the shadows, dipping a finger into her sunlit world long enough to trace the line the blood made as it ran down her forearm. She shook, once, when he first touched her, but after that, she leaned into it, lapping up the praise as a cat would the early morning sun. She still does that, even now, leaning into his every touch as if she is a woman starving, but now all that leaning carries the sweet under current of desire.

Oh, little wisp, he wants to tell her, he has not gotten to the place where he now stands by being blind, and she is about as subtle in her desires as an Edict from down high. He can see the way she straightens her shoulders to draw his gaze to the way her armor cups her breasts, the way she arches her spine just a bit more than necessary when learning new forms, but in such matters she is still indelicate, too brutal, too blunt. He instead finds himself drawn to the strong curve of her jaw, the dark shock of her hair, the gleam of greed in her bottle green eyes.

She has no idea, he thinks, about what really makes a woman attractive to a man such as him, what draws one person to another when they have grown past simple, base, pleasures. There are instances, however, times when the bond between them burns like acid and something hungry begins to beat against his ribs like an animal. In certain moments, when the light catches her fierce grin just right, or when she, completely unexpectedly, pulls a third dagger out of the folds of her clothing just when he was sure he’d beaten her, he thinks he would like to teach her those things.

She would likely take to the lesson well.

At least that much hasn’t changed: she still wants, beyond everything, to be a good student. To be a good Fatebinder. To serve Kyros faithfully, and well. That is another thing he learns, as they train. She is loyal, to an almost astounding degree, and it at times boggles his mind how she can be so unaware of the line she dances around treason.

She is too curious.

She wants too much.

Better to just do her job and be done with it. Find enjoyment where she can, but do not expect more, he wants to tell her, but he has come to realize that she will not listen. They have spoiled her, he and Tunon both, and now she is loyal with no idea of what that loyalty will ask of her. At some point, sometime in her future, Kyros or Tunon or even himself will ask too much of her, and he fears for what will become of his little wisp then.

It will be shame, he thinks, watching her dance across the training arena to music only she can hear, if such potential has to be cut short due to a bit of poor handling. Then the mark on his wrist throbs in time with her feet, and for a moment he thinks himself a fool.

It happens on an evening during her fifth year in Tunon’s Court, only a few spans before she is set to turn eighteen. He is watching her from the shadows, in a manner that those in polite society may term stalking but he would call just doing his job, as she and a few of her fellow Fatebinders-in-training make their way back to the Court after an evening most likely spent at one of the local taverns.

Turning a bend at one particular corner, Ryolde passes by closely enough for him to smell the alcohol on her breath. So they have been drinking, as he suspected. Now, such behavior is generally frowned upon among Tunon’s chosen: they’re expected to present themselves as if they are as untouchable as the law they’re sworn to uphold, after all, but these Fatebinders are younger than most, and Mark is not about to begrudge them their fun. He notes that though Ryolde’s cheeks are stained red with drink, her eyes are noticeably clearer than those of her compatriots. Still, it doesn’t hurt to be cautious, so he follows them all the way back to Tunon’s Court, marveling for a time on how this, trailing after a few drunken youths, has become part of his routine. He slips between their shadows and those of their surroundings, at times closer to their own skin than their clothes. It would be impossible, he knows, for him not to bear witness to the drunken ramblings of her two friends, just as he knows that it would be impossible for any of them, even Ryolde, to spot him if he does not wish to be found.

“If you truly wish to discuss the men of court, it seems to me there is one both of you have forgotten, and for shame, Ryolde, to forget your own mentor.”

From his place at the nape of her neck, he can feel the way she drops her shoulders, and he doesn’t need to be able to see her face to know she’s rolling her eyes. “By Terratus Grave, you can’t be serious.”

Irina, her companion and the one who first spoke of him, is a young Fatebinder with red hair and almost redder eyes and a sadistic streak that’s already becoming problematically obvious. (There’s nothing wrong with enjoying your work, but when your job is to decide the guilty from the innocent, it can be all too easy for that enjoyment to lead you away from the unfeeling justice that Tunon’s Court demands. There’s a reason, after all, that it is Tunon who hands down the sentences and Mark who performs them. It’s better kept separate that way.)

“Come now, surely you must have thoughts on Bleden Mark. You’ve probably seen more of him than both of us combined.” Her grin is almost salacious, and Mark knows that there has been no one to teach this one subtlety.       

"We should not speak of an Archon in such a manner.” The third member of their little trio is another Fatebinder, one who is so unassuming that Mark knows her by name only. From her brown hair to her brown eyes to her deferent attitude, Anara is everything a good little Fatebinder should be, and she will likely totter through service as well as any other member of Tunon’s Court.

“And what is he to do to us? Kill us? Tunon would have his head.” Ah, yes, already, the signs that Irina is taking too much for granted and for too little work.

“I think you vastly overestimate the extent to which Tunon cares for us as individuals. Think of how easy we are to replace.” Even with her timid behavior, Anara sees more than Irina ever will.

“Well, he’d never kill Ryolde. He likes her.”

Mark decides to slip into Irina’s shadow now, largely because he wishes to observe the reaction of his little soulmate.

Ryolde closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and then opens them again. “He likes me about as much as he likes a well-maintained blade. I doubt I’m even a person to him.”

Mark has to grin at her performance. Just enough wistfulness to convince them of her honesty. Truth be told, Mark is almost certain that Ryolde is aware of the special treatment she’s received from him, and that she must recognize at least some of the reasoning behind it, for she is certain enough to try to tempt him, in her own, clumsy ways.

“We’ll see.” As she speaks, Irina stops, before turning around to her two companions. “I bet I can get into his bed.”

“Irina.” Anara looks scandalized, but her red cheeks speak of her own interest.

“What? You can’t convince me a man that looks like that has no desires.”

“Just because he has desires doesn’t mean he’ll desire you.” There is a bite of possessiveness to Ryolde’s voice that even she can’t hide. It races down their bond like a spark down parchment, and Mark hates how pleased it makes him. Then he thinks of Ryolde directing that possessive tone to someone else, and he hates that even more.

Irina’s gaze grows sharp. “And what? You think he’ll want you instead? Then why not take the bet? There’s no risk in it, then, if you’re so sure.”

Ryolde chews on the inside of her lower lip for a moment before speaking. “Fine. You’re on.”

There is a clear gleam of triumph in Irina’s grin. “Excellent. 300 rings. Is that acceptable?” Ryolde nods, and Irina turns to Anara. “And will you be joining us in this little wager?”

Anara’s eyes dart from Ryolde to Irina and then back again. The idea that Mark would ever want such a fearful creature in his bed is laughable. He can’t make anything out of her. Finally her gaze settles, and she nods.

Irina’s grin grows wider. “Excellent.”

By the time the three of them make it back to Court, Mark is sure to be waiting for them in a small antechamber just off the main room. Were any of the three more sober, they may have pointed out that the fact that he seems to have known they were coming is probably not a sign of anything good, but even if Ryolde recognizes this fact, she says nothing, and the other two are too drunk to care.

 Anara goes first. Her attempt is about as pathetic as she is, he thinks, enough to make Ryolde seem an experienced seductress in comparison, and it takes nothing at all to remain still as she blathers on. It’s so awful, he almost feels bad for interrupting it. Almost.

“Pretty eyes. Be nice to wear them on a necklace someday.”

She falls back to her friends with something resembling an open-mouthed laugh, though it may be more a gasp than anything else. At least she knew how hopeless it was. Despite the display, Irina doesn’t seem cowed. If anything, she looks even more excited. She stalks towards him, and he doesn’t need to be looking at Ryolde to see her eyes roll with exasperation.

Closer, closer.

Don’t do it, he thinks.

She does.

Her hand grazes his shoulder.

A loud crack echoes through the hallway as he breaks the first two fingers of said hand. As he lets go, he gives her a single, minute shake of the head.

Next time you touch me, I’ll take the whole hand.

To her credit, Irina doesn’t scream, only inhales sharply, once, through an open mouth. She doesn’t even look all that put off. Instead she just backs away, a masochistic glow to her eyes. For all that is good in this world, he thinks, just give her to Nerat and be done with it already.

 Then it’s Ryolde’s turn.

As he sits there, he assumes he knows what to expect. He’s seen how she acts, after all, when she wants him. He knows the way every twitch of her body will become loaded with purpose, from that way that she moves her feet together to draw attention to the curves of her body to the way she pulls her shoulders back to accentuate the lines of her chest. They’re clumsy, her attempts at seduction, but maybe it is that very clumsiness that gives them their charm. Or maybe it’s just because they come from her. He can feel her lust flowing the bond like water over a cliff, landing firmly on that hungry, pulsing thing in his chest that has been dormant for so long that he no longer remembers its name.

She doesn’t fall back on any of her previous techniques, however. Instead she walks up to him with steady, clear paces. Despite the desire he knows to be humming under her skin, nothing about her posture is remotely sexual or, indeed, anything other than professional. Her feet are balanced shoulder width apart, directly under her hips, and she keeps her shoulders as straight and still as he’s ever seen them. A slight tilt of the head signals when she is ready to speak.

“Archon. There was a matter you wished to discuss with me?”

She knows how he appreciates proper manners.

All hints of sex are in the subtext, and by all appearances, she is nothing more than a dutiful Fatebinder, heading the Archon’s summons. She speaks the words with such conviction that he almost believes that he had called her to his chambers earlier. How like Tauni Ryolde, when put on display in front of her peers, to simply march into whatever space she wishes to occupy as if it has belonged to her for all time, and how dare anyone think differently.

There is something rising in his chest like a wave, and he has to tense every muscle in his hands to keep them from clenching into fists. He needs a dagger under his palm, he needs leather digging into his skin, he needs- he needs her, the feeling of her flesh against his. He is a creature of darkness and a creature of hunger, but never of this sort, and never this much.

Standing behind her, he’s sure that Anara looks shocked at her bluntness, while Irina is peering out of squinted lids, trying to discern exactly what just happened and whether or not she’s actually lost at this point.

In one last attempt to halt the oncoming tide, he gets up and leaves, passing by all three of those silly little girls as if they mean nothing more to him than the smoke rolling off of his hair. He feels, almost more than sees, Ryolde’s fingers desperately move to twitch as he walks past her, how for a moment, all of her confidence crumbles, just a bit. She hides it admirably, as she has all evening, but despite the scar tissue marring her neck, she has never been able to hide anything, not from him. It is that crack, that moment of vulnerability, that does him in. Schisms scatter across his chest like fissures across ice, and his body feels hotter than it has in centuries. He isn’t sure if the roaring in his ears is his ragged breath or his blood, pounding in his veins like it wants to escape.

In this moment, he is having a very difficult remembering why this is a bad idea.

He’s just about made it to the door when he speaks again. He doesn’t even turn around, just angles his head back, towards her.

“You coming, kid?”

Anara’s mouth drops open and Irina’s teeth grind together so audibly that he can practically hear it from where he stands, but Ryolde just nods, once, and follows. Once they’re alone in the hallway that leads out of the room, it only takes a moment to pin her wrists to the wall over her head, slant his lips over hers, and pull her through the shadows to his rooms. For a moment, the thing inside him calms, and he once more feels still.

He won’t be as gentle with her as she probably deserves, but when has that ever not been the case?

And who knows, right?

The little wisp might just learn something.

Bleden Mark looks back at that thought, at the supreme hubris it contains, and wonders how he ever thought himself wise.

 Bleden Djin is born less than nine spans later. Her mother is only eighteen years old.

When she remembers the time she spent carrying Djin, even only a few years later, Ryolde only remembers it as a series of fits and bursts. She doesn’t remember for how long she managed to hide her pregnancy from Mark himself, and the pregnancy itself is more a blur than anything else that has ever happened to her. Maybe that was because it seemed so much more normal than the rest of her life. As her stomach grows rounder, it offers her insight into what her life may have been had she never joined Tunon’s Court, if she’d instead gone on to marry some good little noble boy and have a brood of children to carry on the family line.

Or maybe it was just because of what came after.

She remembers what came after as pain, excruciating pain, beyond anything she’d felt before or since, and as the first struggle, the only struggle, in all her life, that ever truly mattered. She remembers the sound of crying piercing the air, and she remembers the first time Mark came for her little girl.

She remembers the knife – always be ready, isn’t that right? – she pulled out of her sleeve and plunged into his hand when he tried to take her from her.

Doesn’t he see?

This is the only thing that matters.

She is the only thing that matters.

Her daughter is barely twelve minutes old and does not even have a name, and yet she is already the most precious thing Ryolde has ever touched. She will not let the blood that is on his hands, the blood he has smeared onto hers, poison the life she now holds.

 He comes for Djin again a span later.

She screams and kicks and stabs him with all manner of sharp implements (including, memorably, getting close to gouging her fingernail into one of his eyes) but in the end, Djin begins crying, and Mark presses a hand of shadow to her mouth and that is that.

She is reduced to begging. By Kyros, in that moment, she hates herself, but what other choice does she have? He is stronger than her. He knows this. She knows this.

Please. Please. Don’t – don’t take her from me! Please!

 She can practically feel his teeth grinding next to her.

I’m doing the best I can, wisp. Trust me, this wasn’t my decision. But you have a job to do. I have a job to do.

Of course, it always comes back to that, doesn’t it?

The role that she has known she has been groomed for since she was a twelve year old girl, small and slim and shaking.

After he is gone, and she can cry freely without fearing she will wake Djin, she does something she has not done in all her years in Tunon’s Court.

She curls up into a ball on her bed and sobs, big, hacking things that shake her entire body.

Is this the price that loyalty demands?

And if so, how on Terratus is she going to be able to pay it?

 The Ryolde that finally appears out of those chambers is not the same one that he left in there, of that Mark is certain. She stands tall and straight in a manner he would call pride if it weren’t for the tightness of her clenched jaw, and when she sits, she is abnormally still. She is still quick, oh yes, even the spans with no practice have not dampened her speed, but it is as if Djin has managed to do what even Tunon, Bleden Mark, and all of the Court could not.

It would seem Ryolde has been tamed.

Where before, she was a whirlwind, always moving, always at the center of a storm of nervous energy, now it feels as if that vortex has been captured, stuffed into a bottle made of skin that is far too thin to possibly hold it, and only released when it is necessary. All of that power that once dissipated into twitching fingers and darting eyes has been channeled into her every waking moment. Every movement carries a precision it did not before, a sense of purpose that she previously lacked. Even their bond is quiet, his soulmark as still against his wrist as it was for all those centuries before she came to Court.

Is this what it does, Mark wonders, to have more to live for than simply yourself?

She doesn’t approach him, not once, but he still watches her, and in those moments when she believes she is alone, he can see the gaping emptiness in her eyes, as if something has been taken from her, some vital part of her that she will never get back. Still, for a span, at least, she does not speak to him, does not acknowledge him beyond the standard pleasantries and platitudes expected of someone of her rank.

For that entire time, she does not say Djin’s name, even once.

Speaking of his daughter (he cannot believe he has cause to even think that sentence, something that has not occurred in all of his centuries of lifetime), she is barely two spans old and already, she is proving to be troublesome. Even among those whose loyalty to the Empire exceeds their own will to live, it is hard to find caretakers who will tolerate a babe who can bend the shadows around her mobile with a wiggle of her plump fingers.

He remembers one evening, standing over her crib, watching as she plays with the black smoke that roils around the ends of his hair. He remembers his insides seizing with the thought of what Kyros could do with one with such power.

It may be the closest he has ever come to feeling true fear.

Djin hasn’t hurt him, hasn’t even tried, though Mark somehow doubts this is due to anything more than her inability to do so, and as the parade of caretakers continues, it is almost as if Djin knows that none of these people are the one that should be taking care of her before all others. She doesn’t necessarily hurt them, not exactly, but she is able to cause enough of a nightmare – disappearing from view for hours at a time, sucking all the light out of a room, and, yes, once or twice, wrapping shadows around wrists and fingers and necks until whoever it is has turned blue and nearly keeled over – that desperate measures are called for.

There is only one person who he can think to approach to resolve this matter. Tauni Ryolde was alone in a room with her daughter for an entire span, after all, and there is no indication that she was in any way threatened by the young ones sometimes uncontrolled power.

On the next night Djin stubbornly refuses to fall asleep, he brings Ryolde to the private chambers that have been left for their daughter, sealed against entry by anyone save himself and those he expressly allows in. When she finds herself standing in a room with her daughter not a half dozen feet away, he can see how her whole body practically seizes with the nervous energy she was so long known for. Her eyes dart to the crib, and stick fast to it for a moment before she forces them back to him.

“What– what is this about, Archon?” Even now, she remembers her courtesies. Still, there is a note of desperation in her voice, not all that dissimilar to that he remembers from that first night he appeared in her room, when she failed to react to his blade in time.

He arches an eyebrow. “I’m just testing something.” He flicks a hand towards the crib. “Go ahead, little wisp.”

He can feel how every bone in her aches to rush to the object of her desires, especially now that she’s so close, but her gaze searches his first, desperately, as if trying to discern if this is all some cruel trick. Finally, seeing nothing, she turns and makes her way to the bed with controlled, measured steps. Her every muscle is tensed with holding back, but she does so admirably.

Were Mark 300 years younger, he’d probably think there was something beautiful in the way that Ryolde looks at her daughter.

Even young as she is, it is clear that Djin has Ryolde’s hair, dark as the shadows she can already twist around her little fingers, as well as the stubborn curve of her jaw and possibly hints of her mouth. The shape of her eyes resemble those of her mother, but the eyes themselves are all his, all a deep, burnished gold with only a hint of black at the center. The way her yellow eyes contrast with her dark skin reminds him of the view that greets him in mirrors, and it is already clear that Djin’s nose takes after his own.

Ryolde reaches a finger down into the crib to trace her daughter’s features, and Mark waits for some hint of the mischief she’s given everyone else, but all Djin does is wave her hands up at her mother until Ryolde finally relents and takes her into her arms. Once there, Djin grips tightly onto Ryolde’s shadow, as if she’s scared she’ll leave her again. Once Djin has been situated properly against her shoulder and drifted off into something resembling sleep, Ryolde turns back to him. Over the black tuft of hair that most assuredly is grazing her chin, he can see, rather than hear, her mouth the words. Thank you.

And so Tauni Ryolde slides back into her daughter’s life.

 Ryolde does not get to see her daughter often as she grows. She has finally graduated into the ranks of the Fatebinders, officially, and her work serving Kyros’ Peace takes her far and wide across the Empire. Still, some time with Djin is better than no time with her, even though she will never begin to pretend that it is even close to enough.

It burns her, deep in her chest, every time she has to say good-bye, unknowing of how long it will be until she is allowed to see her daughter again. She should be grateful, most likely, to the Archon of Shadows that she is even allowed to see Djin at all – for all that the Archon of War’s love for his children is known throughout the Empire, none of the literature on the subject makes any mention of a mother – but she cannot help but feel as if she has swallowed a large amount of something bitter, something that burns as it goes down.

She knows that she will have little choice in how her daughter will grow up. As hidden as she is from outsiders and, indeed, anyone save Mark, herself, and perhaps Tunon (though she can’t imagine him knowing and not then immediately dragging her before the Court for violating whichever one of Kyros’ Laws she’s inevitably broken by siring the spawn of an Archon), Djin is as much a member of the Court as she is, and her role is as prescribed as Ryolde’s ever was. Her daughter’s life belongs to Kyros’ as much as Ryolde’s does, and there are few ways for one with talents such as hers to serve the Overlord.

None of them are pretty.

Her daughter is barely older than five the first time she excitedly goes to show Ryolde the new knife trick she’s learned.

She doesn’t bother voicing her concerns to Mark. Even if he did share them, what is he to do? He may be an Archon, but all Archons must bow down to the Overlord. Besides, it isn’t as if she is still his student. She has left his tutelage, and with it lost almost any reason to actually speak with him. All the same, she can’t help but be grateful for the time she does have with Djin, because for all of her regrets, looking on at her daughter, Ryolde cannot bring herself to count her among them.

That is most likely selfish of her.

There is one night, as she tucks Djin into bed, where her daughter says something that cuts her to the bone.

“Do I make you sad, Mama?” Her voice is quiet, small as she is, but it may as well be screaming for how it shakes Ryolde.

“No, n-no, of course not.” Where she would usually say goodnight and step away, because it’s easier to say goodnight to a five year old than goodbye, she now kneels beside the bed. “Why would you say that?”

Djin doesn’t look at her. Instead, she keeps her eyes on the ceiling above them, where shadows dance in the light of the small lamp next to her head. “Sometimes, when you think I’m not looking, you– your face.” Here, she turns to look at her mother. “Mama, sometimes you look so sad.”

Djin sees more than she knows. Is there any way for Ryolde to explain to her how she has changed her life? When she looks back over her years on Terratus, she can easily divide them into two parts: the time before Djin and the time after. Ryolde remembers the time before, how everything in her new life was built up around service to Kyros’ Peace until there was nothing else left. She remembers how, after Djin, serving Kyros, serving this Court, may be her duty, but it would never again be her life.

Her life is the small being that lays before her.

Does she regret Djin? No, of course not. But sometimes she thinks of her daughter, who will never be anything other than a weapon of the Court, who will have to learn how to kill and how to lie and how to remain unfeeling despite all of it, and she wishes she were strong enough to save her.

It is not her daughter that she hates. It is herself, and her weakness.

But she cannot tell Djin that. “Not at you, baby. Never because of you.” She kisses her on the forehead, feels her shadow squeeze around her along with Djin’s arms in her daughter’s best imitation of a hug, and tells her goodnight.

 The longest amount of time Tauni Ryolde goes without seeing her daughter is when she is twenty-three and Djin is five, and she is sent, from the capital, to a seaside town in the Remani Protectorate. On this assignment, Ryolde is tasked with investigating the death of a Fatebinder, who met her end while stationed in the region.

The Fatebinder’s name?

Lorean Anara.

Ryolde is gone for nearly eight spans.

Bleden Mark finds the time that Ryolde is gone from Court surprisingly boring without her presence. He still has Djin, of course, and it isn’t like his daughter isn’t a constant source of bemused amusement, but somehow the company of a five-year-old proves to be quite different from that of a twenty-three year-old. He finds himself looking forward to the day when Ryolde returns to Court, if only because she’s one of the few Fatebinders who don’t eye him with gazes full of fear and trepidation. The only Fatebinder left at Court that isn’t obviously afraid of him is Calio, but that is likely just because she refuses to be afraid of anything, despite his best efforts otherwise, or maybe it’s just because she knows that she’s high enough on the Court’s totem pole of Fatebinders that, were he to brutally murder her, he would likely face at least some consequences.

Nonetheless, the company of the Fatebinder of Balance is only a little better than none at all. Irina, Ryolde’s friend with the red hair and red eyes, comes and goes every so often, eyeing him up as she does, but Mark has even less interest in her now than he did five years ago, if that is even possible, and when she is sent to handle some unruly villages on the frontier of the Northern Empire, he’s very much glad to see her go. That one will be trouble, he knows it, and the way she responded to the news of Anara’s death – with a sharp inhale and wide eyes full of something very much unlike sorrow – makes the back of his neck tingle and his fingers itch for his blades. She’s the very wrong kind of unpredictable, the kind that believes that just because she of a slightly higher rank than the rabble means that she has leave to do whatever she likes, and damn the consequences, and someday, it will bring him great pleasure to prove her wrong.

Ryolde returns seven spans and three fists after she left, and the difference is so stark that even Tunon notices and seems to show a shred of pity to the girl. He gives her two spans off – a reward for a job well done, he claims – but everyone knows that it’s because even the Adjudicator doesn’t feel comfortable sending her back out into the field in the state she’s in. The Ryolde that returns to Court is slow where she once was impossibly fast, and the precision that used to define her every movement has turned into sloppy knees and clumsy fingers. She looks through things, instead of at them, even with him, but the most troubling sign of all is one known only to him.

Even a fist after she gets back to Court, Ryolde does not once speak to him about seeing their daughter. When he probes their bond, searching for some insight as to what, exactly, is wrong with her, he feels nothing, just a cold expanse, like an ice sheet, flat and frozen and empty.

Something must be done, he thinks, and to that end, he appears to her in her room one evening, about a fist after her return to Court. She’s going through a stack of papers on her burau, placing some in a box for safe keeping and crumbling most before tossing them to the floor. She doesn’t even look up as he melts out of the shadows next to her bed.

“Archon.” The words are so cold they may as well be dipped in frost, and Mark can tell that she’s doing it again, that thing where she looks at the world without seeing it at all.

He leans against her desk, disturbing a few of her papers in a manner that would likely garner a reaction were she paying him the smallest bit of attention. “Hey, wisp. Heard you were back. How’d it go?” He keeps his phrasing intentionally vague, so that she can assume that he means the assignment (it’s the longest assignment she’s been on, after all) and not the dead friend.

Ryolde keeps her focus on the papers in front of her. “My investigation was successful, if that’s what you’re asking.”

It really wasn’t, and he suspects the little wisp knows that, but if she wants to play that kind of game, who is he to stop her? “And? What did you find out?” It’s probably callous of him to talk to her in such a way so soon after the death of a friend, but it has been over half a year, and she’s going to see things a lot more disturbing if she continues this line of work.

If, ha. As if there really is any kind of ‘if’ involved here. Members of Tunon’s Court of Fatebinders serve for life, or at least until they are old enough to retire. Pursuing other career opportunities isn’t really something that happens in this Court.

Ryolde’s movements take on a jerky quality, and for a time she stares at the book in front of her without really looking at it. “There’s no need for you to get involved, don’t worry. The guilty party is already dead.” She just about slams the book down on the burau, looking up at the wall before turning to look at him. “It was suicide.”

That… explains a lot, actually. Suicide is a violation of Kyros’ Laws, because they decree that everyone’s lives belong to the Overlord. No one may take a life except for Kyros herself, and that includes their own. Anara is dead, so there will be no formal punishment, but it doesn’t really matter. The record will always list her as a Fatebinder who failed.

Ryolde turns away again, but Mark can still see her clenching her eyes shut. Her lips are a thin, white stripe against her face, and every line in her body is strung tight with tension. This situation calls for a different approach.

“Got it, wisp,” Mark says, and disappears back into the shadows from whence he came.

That night, he wakes her up as he has so many times before: crouched over her, a single blade poised at her throat.

The minute the knife’s edge makes contact with her neck, Ryolde’s eyes snap open, and before they’re even emptied of sleep, she’s already slipping a dagger from under a pillow to knock his away. Under the Binding of Shadows, his soulmark begins to tingle, like a long-asleep limb that is finally waking up.

Good, Mark thinks. This is what she needs, a little bit of fight and flight to get everything working right again.

She’s so focused on him that she doesn’t notice when he pulls her through the shadows to his own compound. Here, they can wail away at each other to their heart’s content, without there being any fear of damaging her property or waking up the Fatebinders sleeping in neighboring rooms. The fight is long, drawn out, and extremely brutal. She’s gotten stronger in the years since they last fought; not stronger than him, obviously, but she knows some new tricks now that he didn’t teach her, and even though she wouldn’t really have a chance in an even fight, she still manages to surprise him, at least a couple of times.

In a particularly audacious move, she manages to slip the blade of her dagger in-between his knuckles and the hilt guard of one of his blades, twisting until he has no choice but to drop it. He could, of course, allow his hand to melt into darkness, rendering her entire attack meaningless, but he’s so impressed that he allows her the victory. He knocks the offending knife out of her hand a few seconds later anyway, using the second blade he had waiting for him on his belt. In response, she grins in a way that almost looks normal again, and he watches as two daggers drop into her hands, one out of each sleeve, and the fight continues on with the advantage, at least in term of armaments, on her side. Her fighting style is vicious; she kicks him in the chest hard enough for him to fear for the safety of his ribs, and when he makes the mistake of letting her get too close, she bites, in a way that probably shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does.

Oh, if only he could give the little wisp a real fight. The fun the two of them could have, with nothing between them but their blades. In one moment, as Ryolde’s catching her breath, he takes the time to consider that if this little dalliance does end with a Writ of Execution on the wisp’s head, it would probably mean one of the most satisfying assignments he’s ever had to fulfill. Assuming there’s something left of him after it’s done, of course. Taking the time to think on this proves to be a mistake, however, as Ryolde manages to get behind him and kick his knees out with enough force to leave dents on the floor when he drops.

She’s lucky he’s not interested in a fair fight, because in that case, there would be a lot more blood. Even still, by the time they’re finished, there’s blood dripping out of his nose, smearing his face paint, from where she sent her elbow into his face, and she has a split lip from when he jammed the hilt guard of his second knife into her jaw. There are other scratches spread across both of their bodies, and at least two or three dozen new bruises between the pair of them. The fight ends with Ryolde perched atop him, her legs twisted in his to keep him from being able to move and her palms pressing his forearms into the floor. She’s panting heavily, eyes wide and wild, but when she looks at him, she sees him, and between them, their bond roars like a fire. Mark feels a triumphant grin spread across his face.

At the sight of his smile, Ryolde’s lips twist, and she mutters a quick curse to the air – probably something along the lines of fuck this – before leaning down and slanting her lips across his. He can taste Ryolde’s blood from where’s it’s still oozing out of the cut on her lips, and not moments after kissing him, she sets about using her teeth to open a matching cut on his own lips until his blood mixes with hers in both of their mouths.

That night, they fuck the way they fight. Brutally, and viscously, and in a way that splits you open and carves out every piece of you until, by the end, you’re weary and exhausted and empty. She leaves scratches down every part of him that she can reach – he’s lucky he heals quickly, or otherwise he may have had to wear a shirt the next day – and where ever she sets her lips to his skin, her teeth soon follow. As for him, he winds her hair around his palm and pulls until she hisses through clenched teeth, and his hands find her wrists and pin her down until there are bruises on her back from the floor, but the best reaction he gets is when he wraps his fingers around her neck and squeezes. The way her eyes grow wide and her pupils grow along with them fills him with a kind of visceral satisfaction that he hasn’t felt in a very long time.

When it’s all over, and even he feels like a towel that someone has rung out to dry, Ryolde does something that she’s never done in front of him before. She lays there, next to him, for a moment, with the only sound between them her panting breaths, and then the bond between them cracks wide open, and she begins to cry.

It isn’t pretty crying, either. No, this kind of crying is huge and racking sobs so strong that the whole bed shakes. She turns away from him, trying to curl up into a ball facing the opposite wall, but he doesn’t let her. Instead, almost of his own accord, his arm reaches for hers and tugs, until she rolls over and collapses into his chest. It’s almost disturbingly easy, as if she’s nothing more than paper instead of the vicious killer he knows her to be. He shouldn’t be doing this, he knows. There’s no happy ending to this. What he should do is to send her back to her room, alone, a stark reminder of who she is and who he is and what, exactly, their roles in this Court are. Anything like this is exactly the kind of thing that could give her the wrong type of ideas.

He does none of those things.

Instead, Bleden Mark simply holds Tauni Ryolde as she cries over her dead friend that history will remember in the worst possible way, letting her rest against his body until long after she’s fallen asleep.

 When Ryolde wakes up, she’s alone, it takes her a moment to figure out where she is. She’s never been in this part of Mark’s compound, only in the rooms he has reserved for Djin’s use, so she has to piece together some sort of recognition from the similar architecture and design styles. Most of the furniture is heavy and dark, like it is in Djin’s rooms. Ryolde supposes it makes sense: the darker and heaver the furniture is, the deeper and more plentiful the shadows. To further this, the lights are all placed a very harsh angles, so that even the molding along the ceiling casts long shadows across the walls. The bed’s more comfortable than she’d expected, in those rare moments when she had deigned to think of her brief moments in the Archon of Shadows’ personal chambers. She figures that he’s got to sleep at some point, but she wouldn’t have expected Bleden Mark to enjoy something so decadent.

In such a luxurious setting, the layer of blood, sweat, and spend – both hers and Mark’s – makes her feel intensely grimy and out of place. She makes to get out of bed, intent on finding somewhere to wash, but as she does, she suddenly feels the soreness that radiates from almost every muscle in her body, and her face turns into a grimace instead. Well, that’s what she gets, she supposes, for having angry, violent sex with an Archon. Hm, she wonders. Is what happened between her and Mark that so-called hate sex that Irina speaks so fondly of? Whatever the case, Ryolde has suffered far worse pain than a few of aching muscles, and this soreness isn’t going to stop her from cleaning herself up until she feels vaguely less disgusting.

There are two doors that lead out of the bedroom. One is larger than the other, so she assumes the larger one leads out into the rest of the compound, while the smaller one is hopefully the one she’s searching for. The door swings open on silent hinges, revealing… a bathroom, complete with a large washbasin. Ryolde feels a smile spread on her face.

There’s a spigot hanging over the washbasin, attached to a pump. Ryolde’s heard of such contraptions, especially back home, in Samoid, but she hasn’t seen one since arriving at Court. It does make a kind of sense, though, that Bleden Mark would own such a thing; he probably aims to avoid the intrusion of other people into his space as much as possible.

Once the basin is full, a few quick fire sigils are enough to bring the water to a nice, steaming temperature. Ryolde eases her way into the water with a sigh, feeling all of her muscles slowly unclench. Damn, she thinks, can I just stay here forever?

She can’t, of course, but all told, it’s still the best bath she’s ever had.

Once she’s done, she reluctantly drains the basin, allowing herself a few moments to dry off before standing and clambering out of the tub. It is then that she realizes that she doesn’t actually remember seeing her tunic in the bedroom where she woke up. She’s debating if she should just wrap herself in the sheet from outside and continue the search that way when she realizes the pile of cloth on a nearby table actually is a shirt, though it clearly isn’t hers. It’s a deep red, for starters, whereas most of her wardrobe consists of dark purples and blues along with the standard black and white of Tunon’s Court. The material is also far nicer than anything she’s owned in her life, even in her time as a noblewomen. As she runs a hand up one of the sleeves, the material seems to slip through her fingers like water, and it feels cool and sumptuous against her skin. For a moment, she almost blushes. Did the Archon of Shadows lend her one of his shirts?

Well, she isn’t about to turn her nose up at such a generous offering. She pulls the shirt over her head, finding, to exactly no one’s surprise, it’s way too big. Mark isn’t even that tall, she thinks, frustrated. She’s just entering the bedroom again, attempting to comb her fingers through her still-wet hair, when she’s thrown out of her musings by the most inappropriate distraction imaginable: her five year-old daughter.

“Mama!” The loud, high-pitched scream is the only warning she gets before her lap is full of a squealing, wriggling child.

The impact sends a dull throb of pain throughout her entire body, but it does nothing to stop the shear wave of cool, sweet relief that passes through her at the feeling of Djin’s small body against her own. “Hey, baby.”

Djin looks up at her from place buried into Ryolde’s chest. “It’s so good to see you again! I missed you so much, Mama!” As she speaks, her eyes grow full of sadness, and Ryolde feels her heart break, just a little bit.

"Oh, baby, I missed you too.” The sorrow is probably coloring her voice, but Djin continues speaking with all the awareness of any five-year-old child.

“When Father said you were here, I didn’t believe him at first, but he told me to check and here you are! Father said you were on a job. What was it like?” As if summoned by the sound of his name like in all those children’s fables about him, Mark appears at the entrance to the room, leaning casually against the door frame. Djin stops, suddenly, and turns her head to the side quizzically. “Mama, what happened to your neck?”

Ryolde’s hand flies to her neck, fingers grazing the line of bruises she’s sure adorn her throat like a necklace. She feels her face begin to turn red. “It was… a very strange job,” she says to Djin, and prays to whatever gods exist or Kyros or anything that she’s satisfied with that. Over her daughter’s head, she can see Mark’s lips twitch upwards.

I hate you, she mouths to him when she’s sure Djin isn’t looking.

Sure you do, wisp, he mouths back, and Ryolde is about to stick her tongue out at him when it strikes her how normal this all is. Were someone to be able to look into the room right now, well, they would find themselves swiftly murdered by the Archon of Shadows or the Fatebinder who stands next to his bed, or both, but in a universe where that’s not the case, they would have no reason to believe the room’s contents to be anything but a happy family.

“Mama, are you going to be here every morning from now on? That would be so wonderful!” Djin’s smile is as wide as Ryolde has ever seen it, and for a moment she hates herself for even dangling this kind of life in front of her daughter only to cruelly snatch it away.

“Djin, it’s time for your lessons.” Mark answers for her, and his usually laid back voice is as stern as Ryolde’s ever heard it. Djin’s face falls as she comes to understand exactly what her father is telling her. In that moment, Ryolde knows that allowing herself to once again fall into bed with Bleden Mark was a mistake. She isn’t seventeen anymore. She doesn’t just have herself to think about; she needs to always consider the effect her actions will have on her daughter.

“Yes, Father.” Though it’s clear how reluctant Djin is to leave, she does so anyway, with far more obedience than most five year-olds would likely display. Ryolde hugs Djin one more time before she goes, whispering a soft “I love you” into her hair.

Once Djin has darted past him and out the door, Mark starts making his way over to her. The door, which had been propped open, swings shut behind him.

Ryolde can pick up on the message he’s sending. For a moment, she stares wistfully at the bed, ignoring the way her muscles twinge with every movement. By Terratus Grave, she really just wants to lie down and sleep for the next span or so. It’s strange: she wanted to spend much of the last fist in bed as well, but it’s only now that she feels as if doing so would be actually restful.

“Here.”

Ryolde barely reacts in time to catch the small object flying at her face. She looks down at the brown glass jar in her hand for a moment before raising her quizzical gaze to the Archon of Shadows.

“Salve. Should help with the soreness. And the bruises.”

She looks away. This whole situation: the angry sex, the surreally domestic morning after, and now gifts? It’s a miracle her head isn’t actually spinning. “Thanks.”

When she finally looks up again, Mark is grinning, somewhat wryly. “Well, I do feel at least somewhat responsible. At least a tiny bit.”

As Ryolde scans the room for her own clothes, she feels an accompanying smile pinch her cheeks. “Do you now? I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

Mark’s grin becomes full blown chuckling as he hands over her pants. Spotting her tunic lying by the door, Ryolde moves to remove the shirt that Mark gave her, but he waves a hand to stop her. “Don’t bother. It’s not as if I wear them anyway. And… ah.” He pushes his toe into the mess of discarded fabric that is her tunic. “I don’t there’s much salvageable here.”

Ryolde has the sudden memory of seams tearing and all of her protests being silenced by a mouth tonging at her nipple through her breastband, and her face goes red. “Understood.” For Kyros’ sake, she sounds like a teenage girl: her voice must be a good octave higher than it usually is.

In the end, she finds her breast band buried under the remains of her tunic, but decides against putting it on. It seems like a waste of effort, in her mind, when she’s going to change as soon as she returns to her chambers anyway. She’s only partially successful in retrieving her knives, however, only managing to recover two of them from various spots along the hallway.

Neither of them speaks as she finishes assembling her belongings, sheathing the one dagger for which the sheath was found and sticking the other haphazardly in her belt. When she’s done, she comes to stand in front of him. Her eyes don’t leave his as the world around them melts into darkness, only to reform into the familiar scene of her bedroom. Despite the shear absurdity of the situation she now finds herself in (really, Ryolde wonders, how many can say they found their way into bedding the Archon of Shadows, and how many can say that they repeated the feat?), she can’t help but feel somewhat disquieted by the silence. It feels like something is missing. She doesn’t want to leave things like this, but she also has no idea what she actually wants to say.

Even as she reaches for his wrist, she still doesn’t know what she means to say. He’s started turning away, making to leave for where ever he’s actually supposed to be right now, but unlike the last time she reached for his wrist in her bedroom in an attempt to stop him from departing, he actually allows her the contact this time. Her fingers wrap around the bones of his wrist and hold fast.

She opens and closes her mouth a few times as she works to find the words. Finally, she manages to get something past the tongue that all of a sudden feels too big for her mouth. “Thank you.”

She lets go of his arm to allow him to leave, but as she does so, his hand swings around and catches her own. She can feel his thumb tracing the blood vessels under her wrist, but she keeps her eyes on his as he speaks. “Any time, little wisp.”

And then he’s gone.

 Djin is eight when the Conquest begins, and, as a member of the Court, Bleden Mark moves with Tunon and his forces as they work to take the Bastard City.  As befitting her promise, the little wisp is put in charge of the army’s efforts to take the city. At this point, watching her from the shadows feels almost like a tradition, but at least this time, he’s acting on Tunon’s direct orders, rather than most likely taking the Adjudicator’s demands further than he likely ever wanted. The first challenge comes when she decides which army will receive her direct aid. Her choice seems entirely obvious to him. There’s no way his little wisp, who has grown to such a purposeful fighter, would ever last long with the Scarlet Chorus. War is always messy, but that’s no reason for why it should be sloppy.

When Tunon receives the missive that the garrisons along the enemy’s borders have fallen in preparation for the assault by the main bulk of their forces, Mark feels a sense of sharp pride.

The next missive that arrives comes from deep inside the city itself, as Ryolde explains that, with the help of a… less than dutiful Captain of the Guard, she was able to secure valuable intelligence on the defenses of the city, finishing off the letter with a list of those nobles that will be easiest to convince of Kyros’s rightful dominion over their city.

My lord Archon, she writes at the very end of the missive, I would advise you to move against the leaders of this city who have proven too stubborn to see the inevitability of Kyros’ rule. The swift elimination of these targets should compel the rest to welcome the Overlord’s forces with open arms.

I will eagerly await your dispensation to act on this opportunity.

Your ever faithful servant,

            Fatebinder Tauni Ryolde

Ever the courteous one, isn’t she, his little wisp?

Tunon tells her to deal with the nobles of the city in whatever manner she sees fit.

Over the next fists, one by one, those that the Tiersmen would look to for guidance each come to their own terrible fates. Some appear to be little more than gruesome accidents, others the work of a skilled assassin, but regardless of the method, even the best of the city guard prove unable to ward against the horror that stalks the night.

Bleden Mark taught her well.

By the time the main forces arrive, the Bastard City is leaderless, directionless, and most of all, afraid. The armies arrive to find the gates of the city already open.

And so the first Tier falls.

 Once Tunon’s forces have entered the city, it is a simple matter to dispense of the few still claiming to “protect” the Bastard Tier from Kyros’ might. The invasion, if it can even be called that, is practically bloodless.

Ryolde is sure that the Archon of Shadows must find this to be a magnificent disappointment.

Still, she hears that he marches with Tunon as he, accompanied by the rest of his Court, makes his way to the throne room that will come to be the seat of his power. The doors open with a slam, and though she may well be imagining it, she can almost see red paint at the corners of Mark’s mouth crease as he fights to hold back a grin at the sight that greets them.

Ryolde perches atop the throne overlooking the room, the very picture of arrogance and pride.

A moment of tension passes as Tunon approaches the throne. It only lasts a second, but for one insane heartbeat, Ryolde imagines what would happen if she were to refuse the Adjudicator his rightful place. Behind him, Bleden Mark is perfectly still. Over Tunon’s shoulder, she meets his eyes, and one of his eyebrows raises, just a touch. Probably waiting for the word to kill her, is the thought that comes next, and Djin’s face flashing before her eyes is all she needs to put the whole event down to momentary insanity.

It is when Tunon stands no more than six paces away from her that Ryolde finally bounds to her feet, giving up the throne and moving to stand next to it.

She bows deeply, for good measure. “My lord Tunon. The Bastard City is ours.”

Tunon spares the throne, a seat of power whose authority is lost along with the city’s old ways, a mere glance before turning to the balcony that overlooks the hall. The room below has filled, not only with rows of Fatebinders, but also with small crowds of citizens, nervous and scurrying about like rats.

The image makes her smile.

As if any amount of scurrying will protect them from Kyros’ wrath.

Ryolde stands at Tunon’s side respectfully as the Archon strikes his gavel against the floor. The sound echoes throughout the room, which swiftly turns to silence. Even the Fatebinders seem to be holding their breath as the Adjudicator gives his proclamation.

The Edict is a simple matter, really. All it truly does is display the power of the Overlord in a sufficiently impressive way as to ensure the loyalty of all those who call the Bastard Tier home. If it happens to snuff out a few dissidents here and there, all the better, but Ryolde has spent enough time listening to all Mark has to teach her to know that the Edict’s true purpose is intimidation. Like most of Kyros’ Edicts, it seems to have less to do with justice, and more to do with control. Besides, if there were truly a threat to be disposed of, Kyros would not send for such an ostentatious display. Better that the people never know that the threat existed in the first place.

Why else have one such as Bleden Mark in your court, after all?

As Tunon proclaims the Edict, Ryolde can feel it, the surge of power resonating from the scroll and all the way through her body and into the floor.

That day, whole districts sink into nothingness.

So much for all of her attempts to minimize the destruction of the city. Who was it that said that Kyros did not wish to rule over an empty wasteland?

Nonetheless, the next few spans are filled with refreshingly bloodless work, as she labors alongside her fellow Fatebinders to establish the Bastard City as a bastion of Kyros’ Law and the seat of Tunon’s power. Those spans almost remind her of when she was younger, before Djin was even a thought in her mind, when the activity she enjoyed beyond all others was the studying of Kyros’ Peace. It isn’t to last, however. Early in the year of 429 TR, Tunon sends her to oversee the town of Lethian’s Crossing in Haven, where deposits of iron have created a hub of work for the Forge-Bound.

As she travels to Lethian’s Crossing, Ryolde has time to reflect that Djin, who she has not seen since the beginning of the Conquest, must already be nine years old.

 Lethian’s Crossing proves to be its own sack of wet cats as far as order and control goes. In a state of affairs that is practically becoming routine by this point, the Disfavored and the Scarlet Chorus refuse to work together, causing delays for the war effort, frustration on Tunon’s part as he urges her to resolve these problems, and a massive headache for one Tauni Ryolde. The first major conflict arises not a span after Ryolde arrives in Lethian’s Crossing, and, just to make it extremely pleasant, involves not one, not two, but three Archons.

Ryolde does not know what to make of the Archon of Song.

Or, more accurately, Ryolde does not know what new to make of Sirin.

There is no part of her that can look at the thirteen year old, already bearing the title of Archon and a major role in the great war of their time, and not see her daughter.

She is too young for the things she has been made to do.

She is too young for what may yet be asked of her.

After a few of their own are entranced by the Archon’s power, the Disfavored howl and clamor for retribution, practically filling her ears with the din. On the other side of matters, the Scarlet Chorus spout off about things such as traditional methods of recruitment and necessary manpower until there is spittle flying with almost every word.

Ryolde looks at neither when making her decision. Her gaze is stuck on the teenage girl before her, still two years away from adulthood and already proving influential enough to tear down the entire war effort. Sirin makes every effort to present herself as arrogant and callous, but underneath that brittle exterior, it does not take much effort to make out the sharp edges of fear. If her efforts at recruitment are undone, Ryolde thinks, what will the cost be to her?

She sends the cult to the vanguard. They need the extra men anyway.

She pretends not to see Sirin’s sigh of relief.

The next time that the Disfavored come to her full of complaints of how one of their own has defected to the Scarlet Chorus, she almost wants to tell them to keep better control of their men and be done with it. Alas, killing all who pester you has never been a viable solution in a court of justice, as much as she may sometimes wish it otherwise.

It takes her a few days to sift through all the testimony and determine exactly what has occurred. The problem, from what she can discern, lies not simply in the fact that the man defected, but in the knowledge that his mind contains. The solution, at least for Ryolde, is clear. Remove the important knowledge from the man’s mind, and then he is free to do as he pleases. Fortunately, the Scarlet Chorus are exactly the kind of band of murderers and rapists that happen to include mages with such abilities, and the man is converted to a happy little Chorus member with little trouble.

Well, she’s fairly sure he wouldn’t see it that way, but as long as she can write to Tunon that the matter has been resolved, she’s happy.

There is something to be said for her mentor’s preferred method of sticking knives in everyone’s eyes and being done with it.

As her mother continues to prove most adept at enforcing Kyros’ Peace in Lethian’s Crossing, as he knew she would be, Djin grows as well. She’s becoming stronger every day, and her time free of Kyros’ direction is getting shorter the stronger she gets. She takes after her mother in the way in which she is always moving, as well as the quick way she takes to any lesson you put in front of her. She’s a good student, his daughter, and even at nine it is already clear she will be an efficient killer one day.

There is a part of him, buried deep and almost dead from old age, that feels a spike of pride, followed by a pinch of pain.

There is power in his little slip of a daughter, of that there is no doubt.

He thinks on his own beginnings, on his own failed attempt to take the Overlord’s life. Djin shows more promise now, barely ten and with no title to speak of, than he ever did on his own. As powerful as his gifts are, it was only once he was granted that title of Archon and all that comes with it that he truly became what he is now.

Yes, there is much his daughter could accomplish, should she get strong enough.

Should she live long enough for that.

There is always, of course, the chance that Kyros will decide that the threat presented by Bleden Djin is not to be borne, and that she will pass down the sentence as she has so many times to those who may one day pose a threat to her reign.

Watching Djin topple men twice her size, Mark thinks of the potential at Ryolde’s ever moving fingertips. He still doubts she would actually take the chance, defy the Archon and the Court that raised her in such a manner. She’s proven to be ever the good little Fatebinder, after all, and people do so rarely surprise him. There is always a chance. Of course, there is a much higher chance that she will fail to see what needs to be done and then do it, and he will be sent to remove her from the playing field swiftly and silently. He wonders how much Kyros knows about the drama unfolding with Tunon’s prized Fatebinder, if she remembers the sigil on his wrist, seen his daughter, and put two and two together.

Maybe, he thinks one day, when Tunon’s Court is quiet and he has nothing better to do, perhaps that is why Djin has been allowed to live. So that she can be the one to carry out the sentence.

In his experience, the idea is just cruel enough for Kyros to consider.

 The next time Ryolde sees her daughter, it is with little to no warning. One minute she is on her way from the small hall where she hears people’s daily disputes to the quaint little house that has come to be her own over the last spans, the next, she feels the now familiar pull of shadows tugging her through across the Tiers. When the darkness around her eyes dissipates, she finds herself standing in the chambers where Mark has long since kept Djin with a dagger in each hand.

Always be prepared, isn’t that right?

“Mama!”

She barely has time to drop the two knives on the floor, where they land in a clatter of bronze against stone, before Djin has leapt into her arms.

As the weight of her daughter settles in her arms, something restless deep inside of her quiets.

“Djin.” She squeezes her arms around Djin as tightly as she can before setting her down and squatting in front of her so she can look her daughter in the eyes. “You’ve gotten so big.” Djin nods, excitedly. She’s still small for her age by most standards, but Ryolde supposes that’s to be expected, given her own experiences with height, or rather, the lack thereof. Ryolde has always been short, and it seems she has passed this curse onto her daughter.

A moment of silence passes, with Djin fidgeting in front of her, after which she apparently decides that they have been separate for too long and flings her arms around Ryolde’s neck again. “Oh, Mama, it’s been so long, you have no idea how happy I am to see you! I’m so glad it worked!”

Once the last part finally makes its way into her ears, Ryolde, who, up until that point had been busy washing the scent of unwashed soldiers and acrid smoke from the forges out of her nose using the sweet smell of Djin’s hair, finds herself reluctantly forced to pull away.

“Djin? What did you mean by that?” She can’t help but feel a small jolt of fear, and part of her responds in anger. She hasn’t seen her daughter in nearly two Kyros-forsaken years. Is it too much to ask that what little time they have not be poisoned by some kind of looming danger?

Djin must be able to see the hints of fear on her mother’s face, because her eyes dart away and her fingers drop to the hem of her tunic. “Well, there’s no doors. I mean, there’s only one way in or out of here, right? And that’s the shadows. ‘cept, I can’t get out, because Father won’t let me. So I thought…” Ryolde rests a finger against the underside of Djin’s chin, and she finally returns her eyes to Ryolde’s face. “So I thought, if I can’t get out, maybe I can bring something in! So I found you, and grabbed you, and now you’re here!” Her voice rises with excitement and no small bit of pride, but that quickly gets snuffed out when she sees the crease between Ryolde’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Mama. Please don’t be mad at me. Please. I just wanted to see you!”

Djin’s eyes are so frightened that Ryolde can’t find it in herself to be angry. She pulls her daughter against her chest again, muttering words of reassurance into her hair all the while. She ignores the knot of anxiety that forms in her chest at the thought of how Mark may respond to her uninvited entry. There’s no need to reveal her fears to Djin, however. Her father may be the Archon of Shadows, Kyros’ Headsman and damn near the most untouchable person in the Empire, save the Overlord herself, but Ryolde will not let his wrath touch a hair on Djin’s head if there is anything in her power she can do to prevent it. And right now, Ryolde has more important things to do than be afraid of Bleden Mark.

She pulls away again, but keeps her hands on Djin’s shoulders. “I have something for you,” she says with a smile.

Djin’s eyes light up like stars. It seems even incredibly powerful children of Archons can be placated with presents.

Ryolde wasn’t planning on giving this away, but now that she thinks about it, it will probably do more good in Djin’s hand than in hers. Reaching into her cloak, she pulls out a gleaming blade.

“It’s so pretty!” To listen to her, Djin may as well be any other child fawning over some shiny trinket, but her hand, when it darts out to grasp the dagger’s hilt, moves with practiced ease.

“Real, Forge-Bound iron. One of the first weapons to come out of Lethian’s Crossing.” Ryolde explains as Djin twists the dagger in her hand, examining it from all angles.

“And deathly sharp, too. Be careful with that, kid.” The Archon of Shadows’ voice is soft as nighttime, but Ryolde still tenses every muscle in her body. Djin looks shocked as well, but instead of fumbling or dropping the blade, her fist clenches around the leather grip.

She turns to look at her father, her face as still as a grave.

Ryolde watches from the floor as Bleden Mark approaches his daughter and extends a hand towards the knife. For a moment, Djin just holds it tightly, and Mark raises an eyebrow. Looking back, Ryolde remembers not being able to breath for the tightness in her lungs.

Djin’s eyes dart to her mother, and then back to her father, and then to the floor. Finally, she reaches out and drops the weapon into the Archon’s outstretched palm.

His hand closes around it, and he brings a finger of the other hand up to trace the line of the knife’s edge. “Nice craftsmanship. It’s an excellent blade.”

Ryolde can’t help but allow the sharp statement to pass through her lips. “Yes, well, what exactly is the point of overseeing Lethian’s Crossing if I can’t extort the Forge-Bound into making me all sorts of shiny new toys?” She had done nothing of the sort, and Mark probably knows that; the Forge-Bound had simply needed something small to craft to test the new forges, and given that she is Tunon’s lead representative in the village and uses small, thin knives, she figured that making her a new dagger would best serve the purposes of all. But that’s not really the point, is it?

The corners of Mark’s lips twitch. “I wouldn’t go saying that too loudly around Tunon, wisp.”

“Really? And here I was planning on flaunting Kyros’ laws in front of him like a complete moron. Whatever would I do without you?”

Djin’s eyes are darting between her parents, now, as if she is unsure whether she should laugh or run away. The people who dare speak to her father in such a manner are few and far between, after all. Ryolde wonders if that’s one of the reasons Mark seems to like her so much. She enjoys the taste of palpable fear as much as the next person, but three hundred years of all trembling whenever you pass by must get boring. Sometimes, when it’s late at night and her thoughts drift to the two people she’s almost come to think of as her own little family, as strange and counterproductive as that thought process is, she thinks that such fear must make things very lonely.

It’s funny, in a way. She’s known Bleden Mark for almost a two decades, and she still doesn’t really know what he wants, least of all what he wants from her. 

He examines the dagger for a few more seconds before raising it so that the gleaming edge of the blade extends directly at Djin.

Djin’s eyes are weary, sharp. Ryolde isn’t sure if she’s even noticed, but shadows begin to roil along the ends of her daughter’s hair.

Ryolde holds every muscle in her body singularly, painfully, still.

Mark’s shoulders drop, and he spins the knife so that the hilt, not the blade, is pointed at his daughter. He raises an eyebrow, as if to say what are you waiting for? Take it.

Djin does.

As she pulls her hand back to clasp the weapon against her chest, Mark finally speaks. “You’re long past practice blades, anyhow. It’s time for you to start training with something that can actually do some damage.” He raises his gaze so it stares past their daughter’s head and meets her own. “And it’s a good present. What do you say?”

As if finally reassured that any danger has passed, Djin spins around to face Ryolde, once again the picture of a happy child. “Thank you, Mama!” She looks about ready to fling herself at her mother, but seems, at the last minute, to realize what, exactly, she has in her hand, and stops herself.

The smile on her daughter’s face makes everything over the last two years seem worth it, and Ryolde can no more stop a smile from spreading across her face in response than she could stop the sun from rising. “You’re welcome, baby.” She makes sure to keep an eye on Mark over her daughter’s head. The Archon of Shadows looks patient, for now, as he stands quietly behind then and watches the display. Ryolde tries to make her voice stern. “Now, don’t you have training you should get back to?” As loath as she is to part from her daughter, the sooner she can get her away from Mark, the better. She hasn’t forgotten that Djin brought her here of her own accord, and she’s sure he hasn’t either. Maybe she can convince him not to punish her for that overstep.

“Yes, Mama.” Before Djin turns and darts off back to whatever trainer she gave the slip to arrange this little meeting, Ryolde allows herself one more moment of contact, pulling her daughter close and pressing her lips to the spot where Djin’s black hair meets her forehead.

Then Djin’s gone, and Ryolde is alone with the Archon of Shadows.

It’s happened before, of course, such as after Anara’s death, but such moments have been few and far between since Djin was born.

“Here.” At the unexpected response, Ryolde turns and looks at Mark, finding him fiddling with his bracer. He pulls it off with a grunt before tossing it to her.

In her shock, she only just barely manages to catch it. Once she has a firm grip on it, she turns the bracer over in her hands. It’s incredibly well-crafted, made of dark, fine leather, and something in it roils with power not to dissimilar from that which surrounds the Archon of Shadows himself. Ryolde knows well enough that this is no mere bits of ornamentation; this piece of armor is powerful. She looks up before speaking. “What is this?” A momentary pause before she asks the other, more obvious, and, likely more important, question. “Why give it to me?”

Mark almost looks like he sighs. “You can’t just be grateful, can you, wisp? Always got to be full of questions.” He looks away, as if he’s plucking reasons out of thin air. “Because I have no further use for it. Because it’ll come in handy if Djin’s going to drag you across the Tiers every few fists.” Now, his glowing eyes meet hers. “Because I like you. Take your pick.”

Ryolde is so relieved at the second part that she almost misses the third. If he’s assuming there’ll be more moments like this in the future, it means that he’s not angry with Djin, thank the stars.

As he’s preparing to take her back, he has one last thing to say to her. “You’re doing good work in Lethian’s Crossing, kid. Even Tunon’s noticed.”

For a moment, Ryolde feels fifteen years old again, young and curious and so, so, desperate for the approval of the Court, and some small part of her is viciously pleased.

As the shadows coalesce around her eyes once more, she can’t help but smile.

 Ryolde spends another five spans in Lethian’s Crossing before Tunon finally deems the city to be in enough of an ordered state to continue on without her. In her last decision as the Governor of Lethian’s Crossing, she grants the Disfavored control over the village, for obvious reasons. The forging of new iron weapons and armor is a vital part of the war effort, and oversight of such an important process cannot be trusted to the chaotic mess that is the Scarlet Chorus.

Demand for the little wisp is high. No sooner is the Disfavored garrison firmly in place than Ryolde is called back to the Bastard City to receive her next assignment. The conquest of Stalwart is looking to be a difficult one, and Tunon wants his best to be there in support of Kyros’ forces. After less than a span spent at Court, Ryolde leaves once again, this time to the hard land that will eventually come to be known as the Blade Graves.

As the Conquest of Stalwart drags on, Mark only hears bits and pieces of news about his little wisp. Most of his attention is absorbed with matters in the Azure, and especially with the rogue Archon that has apparently decided that now is a good time to stand against Kyros.

What a fool, Mark thinks as he watches Cairn thunder across the battlefield. True opposition of the Overlord takes a great deal more tact and grace than the Archon of Stone is displaying.

Bleden Mark would know.

As he continues to track the Archon’s movements, waiting for the decree from Kyros to finally step forward and finish this, he finds himself musing on what, exactly, the Archon’s plan was. Did he really believe he could stand against the Overlord in this final moment of triumph? Or does he simply want to create as much devastation as possible before someone inevitably puts him down?

If it is the latter, then, as he surveys the path of broken earth and destroyed farmland Cairn has left in his wake, Mark has to grant the Archon a certain degree of success.

So he watches, and waits, and, when he gets bored, slips away to check on his little wisp.

What else is she for, after all?

The infighting between the Scarlet Chorus and the Disfavored that has become an intrinsic part of this conquest rears its ugly hand once more, as the two sides bicker over food and how best to divide supplies between them. Watching Ryolde handle the proceedings on both sides, Mark doesn’t need to use their bond to tell that she’s already sick and tired of this useless squabbling. She tells the Disfavored to share their supplies (citing Kyros’ Law with such precision it would bring a tear to Tunon’s eye), cuts off the hands of those who would take what is not rightfully theirs, and declares the matter over. The Disfavored are clearly not pleased with this turn of events, but the ease at which she pulls a knife from somewhere hidden on her person and slices cleanly through the thieves’ wrists is enough to dissuade anyone from voicing such concerns.

The second major dispute comes a few spans later, by which point the Scarlet Chorus’ “recruitment methods” are well-known across the Tiers. Kyros’ forces have successfully conquered one of the many small towns that dot Stalwart’s rocky landscape, but even before Ryolde can get there to ensure the implementation of Kyros’ Peace, over a third of those who live in the village have killed themselves.

He remembers watching her pick her way through the remains of the town, strewn with the bodies of those who have taken their own lives, and watching as the blood drains from her face, leaving her as pale as he has ever seen her.

The man who is brave enough to explain what has happened still shakes where he stands before one of Tunon’s legendary Fatebinders. Better dead than red, he tells her.

Ryolde’s decision is swift and exacting.

The Scarlet Chorus will at once cease all efforts to recruit the people of Stalwart. Furthermore, she commands, messenger birds bearing this order will be sent to all the locales in Stalwart, so as to calm the fears of the civilian population and keep such a massacre from ever happening again. The Scarlet Chorus gang leaders spit and scream in her face about tradition and redemption for the conquered. Ryolde’s response is a single, blistering line.

Kyros does not wish to rule over an empty wasteland.

And that is that.

Still, despite all of Ryolde’s efforts to bring the invasion of Stalwart to a swift and victorious end, the conquest drags on for span after span.

It is during this time that the decree finally comes from Kyros: the Archon of Shadows will have no hand in the end of the rebellious Archon of Stone. Instead, she proclaims an Edict that ensures that Cairn will meet his doom, as well as blighting the lands of the Azure into a jagged labyrinth of crystal and stone.

When he hears the news, even Mark can’t keep from grinding his teeth. There is only one reason for the Overlord to resort to such means to end the Archon of Stone: she does not think him capable of the feat. In his time observing Cairn, Mark has noted that his stony hide would prove a difficult obstacle for his blades, but the searing reminding of his own inadequacy stings nonetheless.

The Edict of Stone ultimately does his job for him: its proclamation brings any last pockets of resistance in the Azure to a resounding end, along with the rebellious Archon of Stone.

At the Vellum Citadel, Ryolde’s old red-haired friend proclaims the Edict of Fire, and the Sage’s Citadel goes from a stronghold to a slagheap in a matter of hours.

Which leaves only Stalwart unconquered. As the war continues to drag on for spans without any sign of an end, from behind the walls of their fortress, Stalwart’s Regents loudly exclaim that they will never bow before the Overlord’s forces.

Kyros has never been one to take insults lightly.

Sure enough, within the fist, a new Edict has been drafted and sent to Tunon’s representative in the region.

Ryolde gives the Regents three days to surrender and their men three days to flee.

When the days pass without a word from Stalwart’s stronghold, Ryolde breaks the seal on the Edict of Storms and tears the Tier apart.

Where once, standing before even a single Archon brought her to shaking, Tauni Ryolde now reads the Overlord’s words with such ease that they may well be her own, and from where he watches from the shadows, Bleden Mark can feel the way the power of the Edict burns through every part of her body as if it belongs there. Even with the distance of the bond, the Edict whips through him like lightning.

Well done, little wisp.

And so the last of the Tiers falls to Kyros’ Might.

Chapter Text

Once she has returned to Tunon’s Court, Ryolde is given hardly a moment of rest. Her pivotal role in the conquest of not one but two of the Tiers marks her as a commodity, even in the Adjudicator’s court, and she can hardly go a moment without someone pestering her about her experiences with the conquest.

Calio is probably the worst, always coming up with new questions to ask and, even more frustratingly, new ways to ask the same questions all over again. Ryolde is almost a hundred percent sure Calio is really just trying to annoy her, at this point. The younger Fatebinders are a little more bearable. At least the awe with which most of them view her keeps their inquiries short. Even the Archon of Shadows seems to look at her with a new degree of respect in his eyes. So much changes following her proclamation of the Edict of Storms that she is forced to wonder for a moment if she’s even the same person anymore. When thoughts such as those plague her, she finds her way to her daughter’s rooms. Just seeing Djin, even if she’s sleeping at the time, serves to settle most of her doubts.

She is still a mother, she reminds herself. She has not lost that.

Those few spans at Court serve as a comforting return to routine for Ryolde. Kyros’ Law has always fascinated her beyond all other matters, and now, as the servants of the Overlord put aside matters of conquest and begin to grapple with questions of governance, she finds herself once again in her element. She oversees the redistribution of property in the war-torn regions of the Tiers, where hunger is common, especially now that the region’s breadbasket has been turned into a desolate wasteland. She also works with other Fatebinders to set up smaller Courts in some of the principalities of the region, so as to ease the transition between the old ways of governance and the new. She serves at Tunon’s side when he requests it of her, listening along to the arguments of those who have come to settle matters in his Court, and offering him her insight when it is asked of her. The spans pass without a break in the stability of Kyros’ new rule, and, excepting a strange tingling in her fingers that seems to come and go with no discernable cause, at least as far as she can tell, Ryolde almost feels like normal again.

It’s a shame, really, that the peace can’t last.

It will be a long while before Ryolde again experiences such normalcy.

Open rebellion breaks out in a valley in the center of the Tiers known as Vendrien’s Well, shattering the quiet routine the armies have fallen into since the fall of Stalwart. Both the Disfavored and the Scarlet Chorus are called into the valley to quell this revolt, but getting the two armies to work together successfully proves impossible, and spans go by without any indication that these hostilities are coming to an end.

As fist after fist passes without seeing an end of this so-called Vendrien’s Guard, tensions mount in Tunon’s Court, along with the growing awareness that the eyes of all the Empire, including those of Kyros herself, are on the Overlord’s most recent acquisition. All know that the Empire’s gaze is especially interested in those who have failed to keep it firmly in Kyros’ hands. Nearly a span after the Oathbreakers, as the rebels have also come to be called, first moved against the Disfavored garrison in the region, Kyros finally demonstrates once and for all that her patience with this uprising has run out. She dispatches an Edict for both the Disfavored and the Scarlet Chorus, as well the Oathbreakers: end this rebellion by Kyros’ Day of Swords, or perish.

As soon as Mark hears of the contents of the Overlord’s newest Edict, he already knows who will get the “honor” of delivering it.

Ryolde leaves Court the next day.

The minute the stones stop tumbling down the hillside after her, Ryolde is certain that this assignment will be far different from those she’s been on in the past. The Overlord’s Edict is practically burning a hole in her satchel, she’s so aware of it, and as the dust settles around her, she is struck by the sudden certainty that this whole endeavor is going to come to a sour end. She finds herself wishing, half desperately and half madly, that she had taken the time to say goodbye to Djin before she had left.

Maybe then…

It only takes one charging, screaming Oathbreaker to put the whole matter of her daughter out of her mind. Bleden Mark’s voice comes drifting back to her from somewhere around fifteen years ago.

Anyone ever told you that you always need to have your eyes on your opponent? Well, that’s a lie. There are a lot of other things to keep your eyes on in a battle. Keep them on your opponent only and you’re dead. What you truly never want to take off of your opponent is your mind. The minute your mind goes somewhere else, you’ve already lost.

Let it never be said that Tauni Ryolde is not a good student. She moves from one Oathbreaker to another, cutting them down as swiftly and efficiently as only a student of the Archon of Shadows truly can. As she moves, she feel the shadows twisting around her bracer and, once or twice, darting out to wrap around her as she slips out of her opponent’s gaze, and she wonders what else it may be able to do.

Nerat’s little representative is definitely an… interesting addition to this campaign. The Scarlet Fury is dressed in patchwork armor, but her eyes, one blue and one a read disturbingly similar to Irina’s, are too keen for a simple bodyguard. She still has her soulmark, Ryolde notes, catching glimpses of dark purple script, the same color as a particularly nasty bruise, peeking out over her armor on her right bicep. Ryolde doesn’t really buy that the Archon of Secrets sent her a bodyguard out of some kind of interest in her welfare; he’s seen her work, after all, and is perfectly aware that she is entirely capable of taking care of herself. But if the Voices of Nerat wants to waste manpower spying on little old her, well, who is she to stop him? As for Verse herself, had Ryolde not over a decade of friendship with Irina the Firestarter under her belt, she would probably find the woman off-putting, but as is, she figures there’s nothing wrong with a Scarlet Fury enjoying her work.  Actually, Ryolde thinks as she watches Verse thread arrows through the battle with an ease that is better described as dancing than fighting, a certain enjoyment is probably a necessary part of the job.

Whatever Verse wants to do with her spare time is no concern of Ryolde’s.

It’s as they’re approaching the Disfavored camp that Verse finally speaks up beyond the mere pleasantries.

“So, do you have any idea why Tunon sent a bureaucrat to help deal with this little uprising? Seems a little overkill, if you ask me.”

“Actually, I do want to ask you something. When were you planning on telling me you’re a spy for Nerat?” Ryolde says in response to Verse’s questioning of her purpose in the valley.

It’s a strange sight, to see such an accomplished killer practically blush with chagrin. Ryolde supposes it’s nice to know that the same face that works such wonders on Djin can also be used on other trained murderers.

Verse gives her justification well, complete with a darting gaze and a hand behind her neck, but Ryolde can’t really fault her for doing what she’s been ordered to do, especially considering where those orders are coming from. If Tunon looked and acted half as threatening and half as insane as the Voices actually are, Ryolde’s sure that her childhood at Court would have been very different.

"So,” Verse finally says once the whole matter is closed, “why are you here? Sending one of Tunon’s mighty Fatebinders seems a bit overkill for putting down a simple revolt.”

Ryolde figures there’s no sense in lying; the Voices are going to find out soon regardless of what she says. “I’m here with an Edict for Graven Ashe and the Voices of Nerat.”

Verse’s mismatched eyes grow wide. “That’s serious business, then. Thanks for giving me the heads-up. I’ll be right behind you. Just do me a favor, and when the lighting’s about to go off, let me know, so I can duck.” She turns and points at the heavy wooden door that bars their entry into the camp. “The two Archons are in the war tent in the middle of the camp. It’s probably best not to keep them waiting.”

Ryolde doesn’t need to be told twice. She remembers the single time she was ever late for one of Tunon’s lectures and shudders.

There’s a reason it only happened once.

The Disfavored at the gate recognize her from her service with them during the Conquest and greet her warmly. Ryolde has always liked working with the Disfavored. She’s found Graven Ashe to be a lot easier to manage than Nerat is, and she vastly prefers the order of the Disfavored to the chaos of the Scarlet Chorus. It seems more fitting, to her, that an army such as the Disfavored is the fist sent to bring the order of Kyros’ Peace to the Tiers.

Inside the war tent, the Archon of War and the Archon of Secrets are yelling at each other. For a moment, Ryolde is reminded of all the disputes between the Disfavored and the Chorus she had to litigate over the course of the Conquest, and she thinks she feels her eyebrow twitch. Neither of them appears to notice when she walks in, but she’s spent more than enough time with Bleden Mark and Tunon to know that with Archons, looks can be deceiving.

“Oh, you must be Tunon’s Fatebinder! We’ll be with you in just a moment, once we’re finished here! Just cough if you can hear us, will you?” Nerat’s voice fades away with a laugh, and, given the fact that Graven Ashe doesn’t even take a breath between his bellowing, Ryolde figures she can safely assume that the Archon of Secrets was speaking only to her. Having the Voices in her head makes her feels distinctly unclean, like she’s bathed in filth that can’t quite wash off.

She doesn’t take the bait, choosing instead to stand there, quietly, waiting for the two Archons to finish. A childhood spent in Tunon’s Court has taught her the dangers of interrupting an Archon, and taught them to her well.

Finally, Ashe’s Iron Marshal proves brave enough (or stupid enough) to announce Ryolde’s arrival to the two bickering Archons. Once any and all necessary pleasantries (as pleasant as they can be, Ryolde supposes, when one is trapped in a muddy tent in a Kyros-forsaken pit with two of the most aggravating men one has ever had the misfortune of working with) are over and done with, she tells those in the tent why she is in Vendrien’s Well, and tells them plainly.

“I have come bearing an Edict from the Overlord.” The tent falls silent upon hearing the word ‘Edict.’ As she reaches into her bag and pulls out the scroll that contains Kyros’ message to all those in this wretched valley, Ryolde can feel her fingers begin to burn.

Reading the words on the parchment is much the same experience as when she was proclaiming the Edict of Storms, Ryolde finds. She remembers almost nothing of what the Edict actually said, at least not word-for-word, but she finds she understands the meaning behind the proclamation perfectly all the same. She wonders if this is how others felt when they proclaimed their various Edicts. When this is all over, assuming she survives past the end of this Edict, she promises herself to track down Irina, or maybe Zuna, if she can bear to spend five minutes in Ryolde’s company, and compare notes.

The Archons, however, respond exactly the way she expected them to: by completely falling to pieces. Soon the noise in the tent is deafening as both men find more and more extravagant reasons to blame the other for the predicament they now find themselves in. Finally, when the two have agreed to put their feelings aside, at least for the foreseeable future and the Archon of Secrets has finally, finally left, Ashe explains to her that she is to meet with Iron Marshal Erenyos to determine exactly where the Disfavored need her most. Once there, she discovers that Kyros’ forces have been unable to even cross the Matani river for much of the last span, due to having lost control of Echocall Crossing, and that they must take it back before even having a hope of marching on the Citadel. Finally, somewhat begrudgingly, Erenyos suggests that she also speak with the Scarlet Chorus forces, who are camped some distance downstream, to discover if they need anything.

Ryolde can practically hear the Marshal’s teeth grinding as she speaks, but it’s nothing next to the loud, metallic, groaning sound that accompanies the arrival of the Marshal’s man. Ryolde knew Barik of the Disfavored before he came to be in the state he’s in now, but only briefly and never in full. She’s also heard news of what has become of him, of what the Edict of Storms made of him. Of what her Edict made of him.

Hearing of it and seeing it are two very different things.

Barik responds favorably to her arrival, speaking well of her service in Stalwart and in the conquest of the Bastard City, but Ryolde can’t help but think of the glimpses she still remembers of the man he once was, before he was swallowed in metal and rust and old, broken blades. When she tells Erenyos that she is honored to have Barik at her side, she means it as much as she has ever meant anything.

She gathers a few more little problems to add to her to-do list: she hears of the missing Earthshakers, and at the Scarlet Chorus fortification, if the ramshackle gathering of tents can be referred to as such, she gathers information about the location of one of the rebellion’s leaders, taking Lantry, who was, after all, the source of said information, with her in the process. Now, the Sage is probably as trustworthy as any member of his order - that is to say, not at all - but he’s an adept spellcaster as well as an adept healer, something that’s sorely needed in their little group, so Ryolde reminds herself to keep a close eye on him and leaves it at that. She’s eager to leave the Scarlet Chorus camp behind her – she finds the Riven unsettling. She knows that killing one’s soulmate is a common enough induction rite for the Chorus, but seeing what’s left of the Riven after the deed is done, watching them stumble around, or even hunt and fight and kill, all with that glazed, empty look in their eyes, makes her skin crawl.

It is on the way back from their little excursion into the Tripnettle Wilderness that Ryolde decides to take the risk. The situation there was resolved easily enough – and really, how stupid must Pelox Florian be, to truly believe that an audience with the Voices will end with anything other than his steaming corpse being thrown on the trash heap? But the stupidity of a single Tiersman doesn’t really concern her, and if it happens to serve her own interests, then all the better.

That evening, she makes her way to a small hollow about two dozen paces removed from where the other three gather around the campfire. Verse and Lantry are sleeping, but Barik is on watch, remaining so still that one could easily mistake him for a statue. That she waited to slip away until he was the only one left awake was intentional; in the rare event that he did notice she was missing, any movement on his part would be loud enough to warn her before he has a chance to actually catch her.

It’s dark, in a small copse of trees where she now finds herself. Ryolde can just barely make out the outline Terratus Grave through the leaves on the branches surrounding her. She doesn’t mind the shadows. They’re something she’s grown intimately familiar with over the last decade and a half, and the absence of light suits her current purposes better than the sun would anyway.

She runs her fingers along the seam of the bracer on her left arm before trying to reach for the power it contains. She feels a tugging sensation, and for a moment pictures herself getting pulled into the bracer, never to be seen again. Maybe, she thinks humorously, that’s why Mark gave it to me. It’s all some clever trap, to catch me unawares. The thought makes Ryolde chuckle. It’s not as if, had the Archon of Shadows wanted to kill her, it would not have been possible, easy even, for him to do so on the very same day he gave her these armaments. Putting the thought of Bleden Mark aside, she instead focus on the bracers, and then past those shadows, and on the darkened form of her daughter instead.

“Djin?” There’s another tugging sensation, this time accompanied by tightening, as if some unseen hand grips her by the wrist. The feeling grows stronger for a minute before suddenly fading out, as she expected. In its place, a shadowy, half translucent form comes into being in front of her.

“Mama?” Djin’s voice is tinny, hollow even, as if coming across the wide distance that separates them. “What’s going on? I can hear you, but I can’t see you. And I can’t bring you here?”

It’s as Ryolde expected. By the same magic Kyros used to seal off the valley, she likely also placed wards to prevent any within from using their own magic to attempt escape. But hopefully messages are still allowed.

From what she can make out through the shadows, Ryolde can tell her daughter is looking around, as if to try to find her from all the way across the Tiers. “It’s fine, baby, it’s all right. I’m right here.” Djin looks so small, and for a moment Ryolde remembers why she’s here in the first place. She remembers the price, if she fails. Ryolde calms Djin until she stops searching for her. Instead, Djin looks right ahead, to where she most clearly hears her mother. Once she’s sure she has her daughter’s attention, Ryolde speaks again. “Baby, I just want you to know, whatever happens-“

Even through the clouds of dark mist, Ryolde can see Djin’s shoulders curve forward. “Mama, you’re scaring me.”

Ryolde can feel her heart break at the fear in Djin’s voice. “No, no, baby, everything’s going to be fine, I just wanted to say-“

A loud, metallic creaking fills the circle of trees. Barik. “Fatebinder?”

Fuck, Ryolde thinks. She’s let herself get distracted. She flicks her eyes back to the camp to see how much time she has before Barik finds her. She has to finish this quickly.

“Mama?”

She kneels down slightly so she can at least appear to be looking Djin in the eyes. “Baby, I just wanted to say I love you, all right?”

Djin nods, even if she doesn’t know her mother can see her. “I love you too, Mama.”

Her voice is as sweet as if she were any other child wishing farewell to a parent who has gone off to war, and Ryolde wants nothing more than to hold the world in this moment forever. But the creaking of Barik’s armor is getting louder, and she is running out of time.

“I’ll see you soon, baby, promise. Good night.”

“Good night, mama.”

Djin disappears again, and not a moment too soon. Her form has only just dissolved into mist when Barik comes around a tree and into the little clearing where Ryolde now stands alone.

“Fatebinder?”

“Just clearing my head. Couldn’t sleep.”

Barik nods, seemingly accepting her excuse. If he heard anything of her conversation with her daughter, he says nothing of it, and for that, Ryolde is eternally grateful. 

The next morning, Ryolde discovers that, to no one’s surprise, the largest obstacle to taking Echocall Crossing, it seems, is not the Oathbreakers themselves (though the Tidecaster who introduced herself as Eb during their parley will definitely make for a serious threat before this rebellion is over), but rather the repeated refusal on the part of both the Scarlet Chorus and the Disfavored to actually get their shit together and cooperate. Ryolde ends up getting taking some of her frustration out on Bitter Quip, who she punches almost a half dozen times, in an attempt to beat the man into submission, but the aroused gleam that her violence brings to his eyes in response is enough to make her shudder.

It’s not that she’s opposed to such things in theory, but now? In such conditions with such a fate looming over their heads? He can get off on whatever he wants to, but for the love of Kyros, could he not do it in private?

In the end, Ryolde turns to the same tool she’s used to solve most of her problems: her tongue.

Not like that.

It only takes a few sly remarks and name-dropping the Archon of Secrets once or twice before Bitter Quip falls in line. Once the aid of the Scarlet Furies has been ensured and passage over the river secured, taking the Crossing itself is simple. The forces of Kyros, herself included, slice their way through the village’s defenders until Ryolde is face to face with Matani Sybil, the woman who was behind this whole mess to begin with.

As she stands before the Oathbreaker captain, Ryolde can plainly see those she’s attempting to protect. There is old man behind Sybil, shaking. Internally, she sighs. Killing these villagers will be no sport at all. When Sybil requests that she allow them to flee in exchange for her own life, Ryolde agrees almost immediately. There’s no point in culling any more future citizens of the Empire than she has to.

Barik is quick to argue. “Fatebinder, why would you let them go? They have aided and abetted these traitors!”

“Oh, and do you really believe these scared children will prove a threat to the Disfavored? If so, you’re free to bring up your concerns with Graven Ashe. If not, I suggest you keep your attention on the real dangers here.”

Barik immediately gets quiet. From behind her, Ryolde can hear Verse chuckle. “Enough talking. Let’s finish this.”

And so they do.

After Matani Sybil is finished (With a dagger to the eye, no less. Wouldn’t Mark be proud?), Antio suggests that they raze Echocall Crossing, as a message to the rest of the Vendrien Guard, while Bitter Quip argues against following such a destructive course of action, citing the supplies likely still stored throughout the village. For once in her life, Ryolde finds herself agreeing with a Blood Chanter. If they destroyed every village they conquered, what would be left for Kyros to rule? Ah, yes. The aforementioned empty wasteland. Graven Ashe will have something to say about her decision, no doubt, but he always finds something to complain about, and it seems that whatever Ryolde does, she can’t make everyone happy. The important fact is that, with Echocall Crossing secure, they can finally march on the rest of the Oathbreakers where they are fortified in the Citadel beneath the Mountain Spire.

When Graven Ashe inevitably complains about the “mercy” she has shown to Echocall Crossing, she tells him exactly this.

It is then, that everything completely falls apart. The Archon of War and the Archon of Secrets appear ready to come to blows over who should lead the final assault on the Vendrien Guard. It’s really not that complicated, Ryolde thinks. Simply send both your forces at the Citadel in the manner you see fit, and, while the Oathbreakers scramble to handle the two pronged assault, she can slip in and eliminate the leaders of this revolt. When she attempts to suggest this to the two Archons, however, it goes about as well as expected.

Now is not the time for obfuscations! The Voices of Nerat hisses in her mind. On the other side of the tent, the Archon of War seems to grow even larger with every passing angry inhale, and Ryolde can feel the walls of the tent begin to close in around her. She has to focus, she has to think, if they will truly force her to choose. Which army will have the best chance of success in taking the Citadel? Djin’s face flashes before her eyes. I have to make the right choice. I can’t afford to fuck this up. One wrong word, and she never sees her daughter again. For a moment, she feels twelve years old again, small and trembling before an Archon when she’s too young to even fully understand what that kind of power means.

Then almost two decades of training kick in, and she is once again Tauni Ryolde, Fatebinder of Tunon’s Court, Harbinger and Stormcaller, Governor of Lethian’s Crossing and the Terror of the Bastard City. Logically speaking, the answer is clear. Put the Disfavored at the fore, and the Scarlet Chorus may still benefit from their strategic advances. Place the Scarlet Chorus at the head of the armies, and the Disfavored are weakened by their chaos.

“The Disfavored will serve as the vanguard, and Graven Ashe will lead the assault.” She speaks as clearly as if she were proclaiming an Edict. With what’s at stake, she might as well be.

Ryolde’s memory of the exact details of what follow her proclamation are hazy. She remembers the Voices taking her decision somewhat… poorly, and how, suddenly, quickly, violently, the two Archon’s spanlong fight comes to blows right there in the middle of the war tent. She remembers Ashe’s great hammer meeting Nerat’s cudgel in a shower of sparks, feeling as if her own skin had melted into mist, and a wave of light that blinds her completely. The next thing she remembers, she’s blinking in the suddenly much dimmer light in the Archon of War’s tent, and the Voices of Nerat is nowhere to be found.

“And good riddance, too,” is the only thing Graven Ashe will say to the Archon of Secrets’ disappearance. He doesn’t seem all that troubled by the sudden lack of manpower they are faced with, or the very real possibility that they will be left fighting a war on two sides now, rather than one. Indeed, this conquest is looking to be getting longer and harder with every passing moment, and, somewhere, deep in the pit of Ryolde’s stomach, she feels the beginnings of despair sink in.
Perhaps this is it, she thinks. This is when I finally give my life for the Overlord.

She spends that evening in the war camp, and while all around her, the Disfavored prepare for the next day’s march on the Citadel, she pens a response to the missive she received from Tunon that morning. In it, she allows herself to give voice to that heavy feeling in her chest.

My lord Tunon-

I march towards Ascension Hall fully aware of the fate that likely awaits me, the Archons, and the whole of the Overlord’s host within this valley. This Edict, that which has passed since you pressed it into my possession, and the behavior of the Archons have forced me to acknowledge realities of the world I had previously chosen to be blind towards.

Should I survive these battles, know that the Fatebinder who returns to you is not the one you sent to face execution.

-Fatebinder Tauni Ryolde

It is unlikely he will respond to her doubts well – she remembers the words of the last missive he sent her: Forget not who you serve, and know that all you do, you do in the name of order and tranquility. – but Ryolde sends the missive anyway, safe in the knowledge that it is also unlikely that he will have to respond to her doubts at all.

Still, the last line of Tunon’s missive rings her head, long after she has fallen asleep.

That name is Kyros.

Chapter Text

In the end, with the help of the Disfavored, Tauni Ryolde claims the Citadel of Vendrien’s Well in the name of the Overlord, resolves the Edict of Execution, and, before the dust has even settled from the broken Edict, awakens the Mountain Spire in a flurry of never-before-seen power. The Spire shakes the entire valley as Ryolde and her companions are transported to the top, and the outpouring of new magic is so strong and so distinct that it draws even the eye of the Adjudicator.

The power of the broken Edict rushed through him as it rushed through Ryolde, and when Tunon sends him to investigate, it’s about as surprising as sunrise. As he approaches, he finds it difficult to know where is safe for him to tread on the newly-awakened Spire. It’s unclear how aware his little wisp already is of her connection to the Spire, but Tauni Ryolde has always been a quick learner, and Mark decides it’s better not to take the risk.

Instead, he slips into the shadow cast onto her neck by her hair, pressing himself against the scar where her soulmark once was. From where he hides, it’s easy to feel the rapid-fire beating of her heart, pounding against her ribcage like a felon against the inside of a cell. Even she must not be entirely sure of what just happened.

Now, magic such as this, the magic of Edicts and the Overlord herself, falls far outside the purview of the Archon of Shadows. He does, however, have some experience with wild talents, himself notable among them, and as he watches everyone respond to the little wisp’s newfound power with varying levels of shock and disbelief, he thinks back to when she was a child, just fourteen years old and better at Kyros’ Law after two years than some Fatebinders after two decades of service in Tunon’s Court. He thinks about Djin, how at just ten she was able to replicate his own magic well enough to pull her mother across the Tiers and to her side.

He thinks of the sigil on his wrist, of the potential held in those lines. He has always known that there is power in Tauni Ryolde, but looking at her now, standing on a Spire of her very own, he wonders if maybe he wasn’t literal enough with her capabilities. He’s seen stranger wild talents, after all. He’s killed stranger wild talents.

He watches as Ryolde accepts an oath of fealty from the Tidecaster and reaffirms her loyalty to Kyros, as he knows she will have to do often in the coming spans, and, somewhere in the back of his mind, Bleden Mark begins counting down the days until she, too, will have to be slain for the good of Kyros’ Peace. It is clear, now more than ever, that Ryolde could pose a threat to the Overlord the likes of which has only been seen a few times before, in those such as the Archon of Song, or in those such as himself. She will have to bow to Kyros, and soon, or she will have to gain a great degree of strength, almost impossibly quickly.

This matter has gotten almost impossibly delicate. Already, Mark dictates in his head what he will say to the Adjudicator to assuage his fears. There is no need for this to come to a head early. Besides, where’s the excitement in that? No, one thing is clear beyond all others: his little soulmate has just gotten even more interesting than she was before, and Mark is loath to part with such entertainment so quickly.

 It is as she is making to leave Tunon’s Court following the ending of the Edict of Execution that Ryolde next sees Bleden Mark. She came directly to the Court following the summons, as she suspects he knew she would: even if he wasn’t watching, she’s always been a good little Fatebinder, hasn’t she, so why should now be any kind of exception?

He bleeds out of the shadows next to the bench near the door, causing various degrees of shock in her companions. Next to her, Eb, who is the most unused to the comings and goings of Archons in such a manner, starts and inhales sharply. Ryolde can hear the click of her teeth as she slams her jaw shut against a louder exclamation.

Clever girl.

Meanwhile, Verse appears unmoved, but the low creaking of her leather armor reveals that she’s not as unaffected by the sudden appearance of Tunon’s executioner as she is pretending to be. As for Lantry, he blinks a couple of times in rapid succession before immediately digging around in his bags for another scrap of parchment, no doubt looking for some way to record the conversation that’s about to happen.

Mark doesn’t say anything to catch her attention (because when has he ever had to do that), just nods his head a bit as if to say, come here, little wisp.

Ryolde’s not stupid enough to ignore the summons of an Archon, even one she knows as well as she does Bleden Mark. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say especially not one she knows so well.

Once she’s close enough to give them some semblance of privacy, Mark grins, in a manner that contains just a few too many teeth to be entirely friendly. “So you made it back in one piece after all. I’ve gotta say, kid, as fun as it would have been to watch Kyros’ Edict wipe Vendrien’s Well off the map, I’m glad you survived.”

For a moment, Ryolde thinks of the fear in her daughter’s voice the last time she spoke to her, and wonders what of their conversation Djin passed along to her father. If Mark notices the look that passes over her face at the thought, he gives no indication of it. “And now you’ve allied yourself with Graven Ashe. Smart move, kid. Or, at least, smarter than tying your fate to that of the Voices of Nerat.” Mark’s tone takes on the same hard quality of disdain that it did all those years ago when he first taught her about the Archon of Secrets.

It had been in the middle of a sparring match. In between the relentless repetition of the technique he was trying to teach her, he began throwing in little tidbits about various Archons it would behoove her to be aware of – just to give you something to think about, wisp, he had told her.

And what of the Archon of Secrets? The question had been in between run-throughs and punctuated by Ryolde’s panting.

As he spoke, Mark gestured at her to begin the motion again, from the beginning. The Voices of Nerat? He’s good at what he does, but he has no concept of restraint. No idea of what it really means to draw something out, to savor it. Out of the corner of her eye, Ryolde saw him shake his head. He’s a rabid dog, and the only thing that keep him under control is the fact that Kyros holds his leash. Just avoid him, kid.

“So, tell me, kid, why did you decide to work with General Grumps?”

With the memory fresh in her mind, Ryolde tilts her head a bit and grins. “And what’s it to you, oh Archon of Bleeding Hearts?”

She can feel the tension that begins to radiate off of Eb from two paces away, but Mark just chuckles. “You wound me, kid. Really, that hurts. Almost as much as getting your fingernails ripped out. Oh, wait, not nearly that much. Try again.”

At the sound of Mark’s laughter, Ryolde feels that same, stupid rush she’s always felt when sparring, both verbally and physically, with the Archon of Shadows. There’s something exhilarating about dancing on that knife’s edge with someone who could kill you at any time but has decided not to. It’s about as dumb an idea as that of a fly-eater, throwing itself off a cliff because it loves the feeling of flying before it falls, but Ryolde knows that if she’s not careful, she could get drunk on that feeling.

She remembers a thumb, tracing the lines of her neck, and knowing completely, intimately, that it would be nothing at all for that hand to grip her throat and choke the life out of her. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she feels an echo at the memory of the way that knowledge throbbed between her thighs. She remembers how, for days afterwards, she felt as if she was floating, buoyed upwards on a cushion of warm air and approval, until the span came and went with no sign of her moonsblood and everything came crashing down around her.

Mark can probably see the memories on her face - he’s always been able to read her frustratingly well – but even if he does, he doesn’t say anything. Whereas a moment ago the red paint on his face was creasing against his smile, now his expression is flat, serious. “Look, kid, before you go, you and I are going to have a little talk.”

Ryolde nods, as if she could do anything else. “I’m listening,” she says, just to pretend she has something resembling a choice in the matter. She could just walk away, theoretically, it’s not like he can gut her in the middle of Tunon’s Court, at least not without cause, but if he wants to talk to her enough to appear to her in public, whatever he has to say is worth sticking around for.

“I hope you like being the center of attention. Everyone’s got their eyes on you, it seems, because you did something no one else has been able to manage. Want to take a guess as to what that is?” He arches an eyebrow at her invitingly.

Ryolde just manages to not roll her eyes. If he’s going to put it to her in such a manner, as if he’s giving her a lecture or something, then the answer can’t be the obvious one. She thinks for a moment before answering. “Because I’m the first person to end an Edict before it came to pass?”

The corner of his lips twitch, just a little bit, just enough for her to notice. “Close, kid, but not quite. This isn’t the first time Kyros has used an Edict to provide some… extra motivation, and someone’s able to complete the assigned task before the punishment kicks in. No, it’s not that, but you are the first person to proclaim and resolve the same Edict without dying in the process.” His lips twitch again, almost as if he’s proud. “In one fell swoop, you survived your second Edict, resolved the very one you had proclaimed, and woke an arcane structure that had slept for centuries.”

There has to be a reason he’s telling her this. Ryolde thinks back to the first thing he said, about everyone having their eyes on her, and suddenly it all makes sense. “And let me guess, I now go on your short list of people with the potential to become… problems?” Funny, she would imagine that giving birth to Djin would have been enough to land her on every one of Bleden Mark’s many lists, but apparently there’s some that even she hasn’t managed to grace with her presence.

Now, his grin takes full shape, all hard lines and flat, white teeth. “There you go. Now you’re starting to get it, kid.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t care what you do with the information. But you should know the danger you’re in now that you’ve… put yourself on the map.”

Mark’s eyes meet hers, and for a moment all Ryolde can see is her daughter, smiling up at her, eyes wide and proud. She nods her head. “Thanks for the warning.”

As she turns to leave, he offers her one more piece of advice. “Sticking with Graven Ashe is a safe bet, kid – or at least safer than getting mixed up with the Archon of Secrets. You’ll never really be one of them, but if you value Ashe’s warriors, they’ll serve you as best they can.”

There’s a low whine from Barik, as if he has something to say to that, but Ryolde is quick to cut him off. “I understand.” She does, and not just the bits that he’s saying out loud. She’s about to be under more scrutiny than she’s ever been under before, and the more eyes are on her, the higher the chance she’ll lead them back to Djin, which is the one thing she never, ever wants to have happen. She nods again, and just like that, he’s gone.

Lantry speaks up when they’re finally a safe distance from the Court. “So that’s the Archon of Shadows.”

Ryolde turns to look at him, very aware that behind her are two sets of listening ears and at least one quill ready to scratch down whatever she says. “You sound disappointed.”

Lantry shakes him head. “Not disappointed, I’d say. He’s just… not what I expected.”

At this, Ryolde has to grin, at least a little. “And what were you expecting?”

“Well, I don’t know. Given the stories, I suppose I expected him to be taller. Or maybe breathe fire.”

Ryolde’s laughter rings out through the streets. “He’d be poor assassin if he did that.”

Lantry gives her a look that Ryolde imagines he must have given many a student back at the Citadel. “That’s not- the Archon of Secrets is green flames in a suit. In terms of… unease, the only difference between him and Tunon is that Tunon’s mask is somewhat less… animated. Even Graven Ashe, for all that he appears normal, is a giant of a man with glowing eyes in a magical suit of armor. But this Bleden Mark, he just looks like a… person. I expected Kyros’ headsman to be a bit more… threatening.”

“His job isn’t to threaten people, his job is to kill them. He doesn’t need to be incorporeal, or huge, or wear magical Forge-Bound armor to do that. As for scaring people,” here, Ryolde has to grin, “his reputation does it for him. He may ‘just look like a man,’ but that doesn’t change the fact that he could murder almost every single person in Tunon’s Court without breaking a sweat.” Lantry arches a brow. In response, Ryolde clarifies. “Tunon. He might not be able to kill Tunon. I don’t know which of them is stronger, and quite frankly, I don’t want to ever be in a situation where I find out.”

Ryolde can’t see Verse where she stands behind her, but even so, she can picture the shit-eating grin easily. “And is it the appearance or the penchant for murder that appeals to you?”

For a moment, Ryolde’s blood freezes, before she realizes that no, Verse has not just discovered all of her secrets. She must just think her taken with the handsome Archon who watches her at Court and laughs at her jokes and doesn’t try to kill her. Verse has no idea of the long and painful history between the two of them. Still, that doesn’t mean that Ryolde relishes the thought of discussing this with her. She remembers what happened the last time one of her female companions brought something like this up.

“Verse.” Her voice is tense.

It has the opposite of the desired effect. Verse grin grows wider at Ryolde’s denial. “What? I’m not judging, if you have a thing for dangerous men. Honestly, you make a lot more sense now. For a while there, I thought you were just into women or something.”

Ryolde knows that further denial will only encourage her. Instead, she decides, she’ll play Verse’s game “I don’t have a thing for dangerous men, as you so delicately put it. I have a “thing” for power, and for its controlled application. That’s all.”

Behind them both, Barik sputters.

Verse falls silent, and the smile that follows somewhat resembles a cat that has caught a particularly fat fish, but no one else mentions the Archon of Shadows for the rest of the trip to Lethian’s Crossing.

 When they get to the border of Haven, they finds themselves stopped by members of the Bronze Brotherhood. Ryolde remembers the mercenary gang and remembers them well, especially as a thorn in her side during the days she served as Governor of the small village. When a few stray members of the Brotherhood attempt to prevent her entry into the Tier, matters turn to violence, as they are so wont to do with her over the past few spans, and Ryolde knows that she will be forced to take action to resolve that little problem before too long. She feels an urge to ensure the safety of Lethian’s Crossing, out of some outdated loyalty to the settlement she ran and saw grow from a few huts along a river to a bustling little village, if nothing else.

After stopping at Eldian’s house to discuss the current state of affairs in the hamlet, Ryolde learns from him of the presence of the Archon of Song in the town. Yet another problem for her to deal with. The last time she encountered Sirin, it was at the Scarlet Chorus Camp in Vendrien’s Well, but there’s been no sign of Scarlet Chorus in the area. Indeed, most reports indicate that their activities have been limited to the Contested Lands. Regardless, it wouldn’t be good form of her to leave an unaccompanied Archon of Song in her town, now would it?

The hall where Sirin has come to make her home is slightly larger than the others clustered around it, but otherwise unremarkable. It’s floors are made of the same slightly grainy wood that composes all of the surrounding houses, and the ceiling sags just the same as all others in Lethian’s Crossing. The only thing remarkable about the hall, other than its noteworthy cleanliness, is the large crowd that’s gathered inside. Well, that and the Archon of Song, of course.

Sirin is just as pleasant as Ryolde remembers her being. As with the last few times Ryolde met her, she is caught between wanting to smack the girl upside the head and send her off to bed without dinner for being a brat and wondering, somewhat helplessly, if this is what her daughter will turn into after few years’ of the same pressures on her shoulders. That is, until the little witch tries to mind control her into taking that accursed headpiece off. It is then that Ryolde decides, that for the safety of all involved, the Scarlet Chorus’ Songbird can’t just be left here, to do whatever she pleases.

Persuading Sirin to join her is easier than Ryolde expected. Maybe it’s just that she still has fond memories of Ryolde from when she “got rid of that awful cult for her during the Conquest,” or maybe it’s just the promise of more power from the Spires, but once she has decided that accompanying the Fatebinder that awoke the Mountain Spire is in her best interests, Sirin is practically rearing to leave.

Ryolde, on the other hand, has a few more errands to run in the village, including teasing out how, exactly, the Oathbreakers got their hands on Forge-Bound iron ingots. After asking around the Merchant Quarter to see if any of them recognize the seal stamped on the ingot she found in Echocall Crossing, she finally gets her answer, one that chills her blood. Harchiand Bronze tells her about how the Voices of Nerat paid him to use the Ink and the Quill trading company to funnel iron to the Vendrien Guard. Perhaps it was simply out of a desire to undermine the Disfavored, or maybe Nerat had more nefarious intentions, but the point remains. To so blatantly aid an enemy of the Overlord is a crime of the highest order, and Ryolde’s fairly certain that, by the end of this investigation, she’s going to end up accusing the Archon of Secrets of treason.

And won’t that be the high point of her day? 

The last matter that she wishes to resolve while in Lethian’s Crossing concerns a very particular member of the Disfavored. Barik drags his heels like there’s no tomorrow as Ryolde talks Lohara, the Master of Tempering at the Crossing, into letting slip the location of a Forge-Bound mage who is not beholden to Kyros’ Laws. She suspects that, were she not well-known and well-loved for her actions while Governor of the Crossing, the whole interaction would have gone very differently, but as is, she is simply grateful that she was able to pick apart Tunon’s ruling enough to find some kind of loophole. Barik is displeased, but Ryolde is confident that she understands the intricacies of Kyros’ Laws better than he does, and as such pays him no mind. She’s already decided she’s going to get him out of that damned metal prison, whatever it takes, and he really should just leave all of the “dealing with Tunon” to her.

So she thanks Lohara for the information, and as she leads her little gang out of Lethian’s Crossing, there’s a noticeable spring in her step. She’s in a hurry, after all, since there’s now another stop that needs to be made before she reports in to Graven Ashe at Iron Hearth.

 When Ryolde leads the walking mountain of metal into the small forge outside of Halfgate, Bleden Mark is almost surprised. His little wisp has always been clever, but he doubted that even she would flaunt Tunon’s ruling so blatantly. Oh, she’s not disobeying it directly, of course, she’s far too smart for that, but by doing this, seeking out a mage who has not bowed to Kyros and to whom therefore any rulings of Tunon’s court do not apply, she’s definitely going against the spirit of the ruling, if not the letter. Her Disfavored companion clearly agrees, if the way he carries on is any indication. Mark will grant that he holds remarkably steady when Lycentia jams his side with a glowing rod pulled directly from the forge, but besides that moment, he’s only very rarely quiet.

Mark doesn’t quite understand why that is. Being trapped in that rusted, reeking prison can’t be pleasant, and Ryolde has reassured him on numerous occasions that the consequences of her actions will fall on her head rather than his. If she’s willing to put her own neck on the line in order to better his situation, why argue? Of course, Mark has his own advice to give the wisp; namely, that he doubts the rust bucket, as his sister so charmingly refers to him, is worth all the effort she’s putting into this, as well as all the risks she’s taking. Furthermore, he doubts it’s going to be worth the threat to his skin when he inevitably lies to the Adjudicator about it.

Well, a lie by omission, but still. Bleden Mark doesn’t like to split hairs, and he learned of Tunon’s similar distaste for the process well over two centuries ago.

Once the mage-smith is done with her preliminary examinations, she requests a sample of the metal with which Barik’s metal shell was originally composed of, prompting Ryolde, Barik, and their two companions to trek all the way across the Tiers to the region once known as Stalwart.

Bleden Mark follows only reluctantly; he hates the Blade Graves. Getting the grit out of his dreadlocks takes next to an eternity. How on Terratus he even manages to get dust in his hair when he’s only corporeal a tiny fraction of the time, he has no idea, but thinking about it, it does sounds like the kind of thing Kyros would do just to fuck with him.

Mark can feel Ryolde’s guilt like a knot in his chest as Barik recounts the tale of his experience with the Edict of Storms. He remembers the way the magic of the Edict of Storm sank into her bones as if it belonged there and knows that for all that it may have been Kyros who put those words to paper, the Edict is as much Ryolde’s as it ever was the Overlord’s. Ryolde has never been one to shirk any kind of responsibility, perceived or otherwise. He can tell how it grates on her, hearing Barik wax on and on about how he is willing to remain in this armor if it is truly the will of Kyros when it was not Kyros’ will but her own that put him in this predicament in the first place. He can see her patience wearing thin as Barik accuses her of claiming to know what’s in his best interests better than he does, as if this whole detour was solely for his benefit and nothing else.

It’s right after they discover why Barik is trapped the way he is that Ryolde finally snaps. 

“Can you not see that, if this is the price Kyros wishes me to pay for the glory of the Empire, then I have accepted it? For the Empire, I will pay any price, gladly.” If Barik had left it at that, he may still have been able to emerge from this conversation gracefully. Service to the Empire is something Ryolde cherishes, after all. But, unfortunately, no one ever thought to teach the Disfavored tact. “I would have thought a Fatebinder would better understand the necessity of sacrifice in service to the Overlord.”

Well, shit. Bleden Mark sighs, and closes his eyes for a moment before opening them again.

In front of him, he watches as Ryolde blinks rapidly for a moment, as if struggling to comprehend the insult Barik just threw in her face. Rage burns out the shock in her veins, and he watches as her lips twist into a snarl full of too many teeth, slowly at first, and then all at once. “You should be careful not to speak of things you do not understand.” Her voice rises as she speaks, until, by the end of her sentence, she’s damn near screaming into Barik’s iron helmet. “I have given more to Kyros than you will ever know!” Her voice is flayed open, raw, as if someone has reached inside of her and removed something vital. For a moment, all Mark can see is her eyes, during that one span right after he took Djin, when all they contained were shards of colored glass over gaping pits of emptiness.

Though she can’t see him, Ryolde walks right past him as she storms out, passing by closely enough for him to see the sparks gathering at the corner of her eyes and along the edges of her fingers. When the door slams behind her, even he can’t say if she slammed the door herself, or if it was because of a sudden gust of wind.

 For the rest of the trek back to the Mountain Spire, Ryolde can feel how the tension still hangs in the air, like static electricity after a lightning storm. Barik simply refuses to speak to her; instead, he just kind of hovers nearby, awkwardly, as if he wants to say something but can’t bring himself to actually speak the words aloud. Ryolde knows that Lantry’s watching her curiously - she can feel the tingle of his eyes on the back of her neck - but every time she turns to ask him about it or speak to him about something or even just look at him, she finds him buried behind one of his many scrolls, his quill scratching away on the parchment as if it’s been doing so for hours. Eb’s the only one who seems completely uninterested in her. Instead, she’s silent, and keeps her gaze on the ground, appearing for all the world to be lost in thought. The silence is heavy and uncomfortable, and it’s with great reluctance that Ryolde announces the need to make camp as the sun begins to set. She would much rather keep walking – the idea of dragging this out any more than necessary is beginning to seem physically painful – but she also has no desire to recklessly endanger her life and those of her three companions only to spare herself some discomfort. So they build a small fire, set up their bed rolls, and nibble away at rations in silence. Well, as silent as Barik can be when he’s eating, anyway.

“I’ll take first watch,” Ryolde says, once they’ve all had their fill of food. She’s not exactly eager to fall asleep, and she suspects some time spent staring into the darkness, alone with her thoughts, would do her some good. It would certainly be better than lying in her bed roll and pretending to be asleep. Lantry doesn’t argue. He’s likely just as eager to end this awkward evening as she is. Barik’s armor creaks, as if he wants to say something, but Ryolde just gives him a look, and he goes silent again. They bank the fire down to embers, Barik applies the necessary oils to ensure he doesn’t rust in place over night, and soon both of them have vanished into their furs.

Ryolde leans her back against a tree, trying to get comfortable. Once she’s found a position that minimizes the number of knots that are poking her spine, she pulls one of her daggers out from her sleeve and begins spinning it around on her palm. It’s only after she’s stilled against the tree that she realizes that Eb hasn’t made a move to touch her own bed roll. Instead, she sits down on a log near to where Ryolde is sitting. As the quiet reigns between them, Ryolde takes the time to take in the Tidecaster’s stocky form. Her white hair is still strewn with dust from the Blade Graves. Her soulmark runs in red ink from beneath her breast band and loops down to her navel.

They sit in silence for almost an hour before Eb finally speaks. “When did they die?”

Startled, Ryolde’s eyes snap up from the blade in her hand to meet Eb’s own. “What?” 

Eb holds her gaze for a minute. Her eyes then flick back to the ground and stay there for a time before she looks back up. “Your child. Or children, I suppose. If you don’t mind me asking, how did they die?”

Ryolde feels her blood freeze, and not even the Tidecaster’s uncharacteristic softness can entice her veins to thaw. “She’s not dead.” No sooner have the words slipped past her lips than she realizes the unforgivably stupid mistake she’s just made.

“Oh?” One of Eb’s eyebrows arches in a questioning manner, and Ryolde can feel the entire story, the whole truth of it, welling up in her throat as if she’s about to be sick.

She sits there for a moment, absolutely certain she looks like an idiot with the way her mouth gapes open, before sighing. Her shoulders fall, but there’s nothing relaxed about the gesture. It’s more like something breaking, the collapse of a precarious ruin that has stood for far longer than it had any right to. Looking back, Ryolde doesn’t quite remember what madness drove her to honesty that night. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the quiet, broken only by the sounds of insects and the occasional crackling of the dwindling fire.

Maybe it was the kindred emptiness she saw reflected back in Eb’s eyes.

Ryolde doesn’t look at that emptiness as she speaks. “She’s not dead. She’s just…” She falls silent for a moment as she struggles to find a way to explain it without simply blurting out the entire torrid affair. “She’s only in my life sparingly.”

Eb doesn’t say anything, simply allowing Ryolde the time to organize her thoughts and structure them into something resembling sense. Ryolde turns the matter over and over in her head before deciding that there’s really only one important part of the story to tell. “My life belongs to the Court. Everything I am, everything I do, belongs to the Overlord.” She smiles, but there’s no joy to it, only the slow ache of a decade-long heart break. “Including my daughter.” Ryolde’s eyes sting, but the tears don’t come. It’s been too long. She’s forgotten how to turn her sadness into water. “She will serve Kyros one day, as I do. I go spans without seeing her, and even when I do, I’m only allowed a few hours with her before I must return to my duties. And every time I see her, she’s less the child I gave birth to and more the weapon Kyros wants her to be.” She glances back to the camp, where Barik lies, presumably asleep, in his bed roll. “He has no idea, what it is to lose a child, slowly, over the course of years. To hold her in your arms, to be a mother, and then to have that taken away, with no way of knowing when you will be given the chance to feel it again.”

Eb is quiet, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Instead, it’s companionable, as if, for the first time since Djin’s birth, Ryolde has finally been given space to mourn for the daughter she has lost, and for the daughter she continues to lose. Both women allow their gazes to drift away, to take in the rustling leaves and starry sky that make up this moonlit night, but eventually, Ryolde’s eyes find the Tidecaster again.

“Barik doesn’t understand, but you do.” The words aren’t a question, not really, more of a statement of the fact that both women are aware of. Ryolde tilts her head, just a bit, the way she often does before asking a question. “Will you tell me about them?”

Eb’s smile is small and sad in a way that could almost be described as wistful. “There were three of them. There were the twins, Drevenor and Lorma, and then Acamas came after. Aldenos wanted more, but I told him no. Carrying three children is hard enough on its own, but once magic gets pulled into the mix… well, we decided that three were plenty.

“All three of them were grown by the time Kyros came. The twins, they died at the Gates of Judgement – or at least, Drevenor died – run through by a Disfavored spear. Lorma was at the battle, but… I don’t know what became of her. My fear has been that she was recruited by the Scarlet Chorus… perhaps she has a new name. If she’s even still alive.”

And here we have it: the cost of Kyros’ Peace. There was a reason why Ryolde had taken pains to make the Conquest of the Bastard City as bloodless as possible. Nothing is gained by such slaughter, by forcing parents to bury their children. “And Acamas?”

Eb once again smiles without humor. “He’d always been sensitive. When neither of his siblings came home, he… he hanged himself.”

Anara’s face flashes through Ryolde’s mind, first as she was when they were young, her laughter light and late but there, and then as she found her, mouth gaping open, with the tongue hanging out, face blue from oxygen deprivation. She’s pulled out of her memories by the sound of Eb’s empty laughter. “And now here I am, last of my family, last of my order, telling their stories to one of Tunon’s feared Fatebinders. If they could see me now…” She shakes her head as the chuckles continue, heavy and dark with irony.

Ryolde answers with a wry smile as Eb’s mirth fades away. “Thank you for telling me about them. And for what it’s worth, I’m glad that you’re still alive.”

Eb’s eyes harden, but there’s still warmth underneath, like the thin shell of ice over rushing water. “I don’t need your pity, Fatebinder.”

Now, it’s Ryolde’s turn to laugh. “You know, my closest female companion, at least who isn’t also one of my teachers, is a complete psychopath. She’s a friend, in her own… special way, but she admires the Voices of Nerat, for Kyros’ sake.” She tilts her head again as one last huff of incredulous laughter brings her shoulders to shaking. “Is it that impossible to believe that I’m grateful to have met you?”

All at once, Eb softens, like the cresting of dawning light at sunrise. “Well, when you put it like that.” She smiles. “And, though I can’t believe I’m saying this, I’m glad to have met you too, Fatebinder.” She gestures back to camp. “Go, get some sleep. I can take over watch.”

Ryolde stands up, but as she turns to make her way to her bedroll, she pauses, and angles her face back towards Eb. “Ryolde.”

“What?”

“You can call me Ryolde. I don’t have any kind of interesting story behind it, but…” she shrugs. “It’s the name my mother gave me.”

The corners of Eb’s lips tilt upwards, just barely not enough to be called a smile. “All right, Fate- Ryolde.” Ryolde turns to head to the circle of tents.

“Oh, and Ryolde?”

Ryolde looks back to her. “Yes?”

“Thank you for telling me about your daughter. You… you probably took a risk by being honest, and I… I appreciate it.”

Smiling, Ryolde nods, once, before picking her way across camp to get to her bed roll, stepping carefully to avoid waking Lantry or especially Barik. She’ll have to talk to him, she supposes, before long, if only to bring this damned awkwardness to an end, but for now, she’s strangely satisfied with how things turned out this evening. That conversation was different from any she’s had in a very long time, and though, with the way her thoughts are spinning, she expects to lie awake in her furs for quite some time, she has no trouble falling asleep the minute her head hits the pillow.

 It is once they get back to Iron Hearth that the campaign truly begins in earnest. Watching her, as he’s been commanded to do by Tunon himself, Bleden Mark can feel the way being back in the Blade Grave grates at Ryolde, how the howling winds and only semi-familiar landscapes string tension into her shoulders that increases with each passing day. The memory of the Edict she proclaimed here all those years ago clearly still pulls at her bones, and the winds blow so fiercely around her that even Mark sometimes has a difficult time getting close.

The Disfavored first set their sights on Duskwatch, aiming to move in and claim the fort for themselves. The men who are stationed nearby offer to charge in with her, but Ryolde waves them off with something like exasperation in her eyes. Instead, she goes in with only a few companions watching her back, and Mark feels more than a little pride as one by one, the Unbroken in the camp fall to her arrows, shot through gaps in the walls, or to her blades, slid through gaps in their ribcages. Once she’s done most of the work, the Disfavored easily clean up the few remaining stragglers, and all that’s left is for them to learn of the Unbroken’s plans from their captured comrade.

After his bindings have been cut away, Callias tells them that the Unbroken plan to reach Sentinal Stand, the main stronghold of the Regents and eye of the storms that ravage the Blade Graves, using an artifact to get past the wind wall. Mark pays special attention to the mention of this artifact – there seem to be quite a few items of power spread across the Tiers, and if Ryolde’s half as smart as he thinks she is, she’ll do well to gather a few of them for her own. After she’s finished picking the soldier’s brain on the artifact and the Unbroken’s plans for it, Ryolde decides to question him about the location of Graven Ashe’s missing daughter.

Now, Mark can, and has, been critical of the Archon of War in the past, especially for his extremely sentimental tendencies. The man’s spawn has been missing for what, three years now? And yet he’d still risk their entire campaign on a few hints that she may yet be alive. Mark remembers the warning Ryolde gave all forces in Stalwart prior to declaring the Edict of Storms, how Graven Ashe pushed his men at Sentinel Stand regardless, and wonders how he ever thought that Ashe would do anything different. Then he thinks of the way that Ryolde looked at the crib all those years ago, when he finally brought her to Djin’s rooms, eyes full of desperate, painful hope, and wonders how he ever thought she’d do anything else but help the Northern Gerneral in this foolish quest.

Callios confirms that Amelia was still alive the last time that he saw her, and Mark knows that this will only make the General of the Disfavored even more desperate to find her. Whatever her current state, the girl’s spent three years imprisoned by her father’s greatest enemies, and a lot can change in that time. Mark doubts that this little rescue is going to go the way either of them plan.

Ryolde takes the time to report back to Graven Ashe, because of course she does, and then they’re off to claim the next Unbroken fort for the Disfavored. Mark wonders what the Great General would do if he didn’t have a Fatebinder following his men around and cleaning up after their incompetence.

Once they get to the Rust Canyon, it’s quickly made clear that, once again, the Disfavored stationed there will be of little to no help to Ryolde’s efforts. Though, given the way that Ryolde eyes the Disfavored captain after his little “slave girl” comment, that’s probably a good thing, if only for his continued longevity. She’s gotten quite good at arranging accidents, after all.

Even once they’ve cleaned out the fort, the Unbroken captain stationed there, a hard, broad women named Elia, leads them on a wild chase among the rock formations north of the camp. In the end, however, she finds herself in the same position as all those Ryolde has hunted over the years: pressed into a corner, with her back against the wall and all hope of escape swiftly disappearing. Even when she’s finally been defeated and lies there in the dirt, holding her guts in, she still decides to spit at Ryolde. “You can do what you like to me! It doesn’t matter, I will tell you nothing!”

Mark has to grin at that. As annoying as this little fly is being, it can be more fun when they beat their wings against the amber they’re swiftly drowning in. It gives you an excuse to tear the damn things off.

The metal man at Ryolde’s side apparently has something to say, because when doesn’t he. “Don’t waste your time with her, Binder. She’s not worth the effort. Or the blood you’d get on your shoes.”

In response, Ryolde waggles her blood-soaked fingers at him. “We’ll see about that.” She grins, hard and cruel and full of teeth, as she leans over the fallen Unbroken, until her mouth is next to Elia’s ear.

Swiftly, before anyone watching can tell what she’s doing, a loud crack echoes through the cayon as Ryolde breaks at least two fingers of Elia’s right hand. Her voice, when it slithers into Elia’s ear, is so soft that even Mark strains to hear it. “Do you really think that Regent deserves any more of your pain? Remember, you have more fingers. And I have plenty of time.”

She pulls away to smile at the Unbroken, as sickly sweet as candy left out in the sun.

Bleden Mark feels his lips curve into a satisfied grin.

He trained her well.

Elia tells them everything. In between pained gasps and half broken sobs, she tells them about Mattias, their leader, and where he can be found, as well as the location of the artifact the Unbroken are so desperate to get their hands on. It can be found in the Oldwalls, made accessible by a conveniently located breach on the edge of the Blade Graves. Before they make their way to it, however, Ryolde and her companions – the Disfavored with the great statue impression, the Tidecaster, and the slippery sage – head to the camp known as Trapper’s Junction, to take care of the Unbroken Leader hiding there.

The fight is short and clean, nothing remotely interesting about it, but there is something interesting to be found on Irentis’ corpse: notes, detailing the suspected location of the Dauntless. Now, even Mark has heard of the famed blade, and though Ryolde has about as much use for a sword as she does for a letter opener (Actually, come to think of it, she’d probably get more out of the letter opener. It’s more her style.), it would still do her well to claim it, at least before anyone else does. When she makes a detour to the location mentioned in the notes on her way from Iron Hearth to the Oldwalls Breach, Mark finds himself pleased. At least she listened to some of what he’s been telling her all these years.

He follows her only sparingly into the Oldwalls. There are plenty of shadows there for him to hide in, but the twisting caverns and layers of magical protection make teleportation… tricky. Not impossible, but he’s more prone to making stupid mistakes in the Oldwalls than he is anywhere else. That and he’s had some difficulties hiding from particularly powerful Bane in the past. Something about the way they sense magic has given him… difficulty. He still peeks in on her from time to time, if only to make certain she hasn’t been eaten, and also so as to keep an eye out for Djin. The girl’s becoming more and more proficient at stretching her senses through the shadows, and he’d hate for her to stick her nose where it doesn’t belong. Mostly, he spends the time hanging around Court, scaring the younger Fatebinders-in-training and pretending to be irritable about the bet with Calio he’s very swiftly losing. The one event that draws his attention from the drudgery at Court is when, all of sudden, the Ocean Spire overlooking the Blade Grave lights up like a beacon, sending ripples of magic across the Tiers. Power rushes through the soulbond like a wave cresting on a beach, and Mark doesn’t need to wait for Tunon’s order.

He slips into Ryolde’s shadow just in time to join her as the power now humming up the length of the Spire pulls her with it, all the way to the top. Whereas her companions all respond to the riotous travel with various degrees of stumbling, Ryolde lands on her feel with perfect balance, almost as if she was prepared. It’s over too quickly for him to be sure, but as her feet touch down on the Spire, Mark is almost certain he sees her eyes glow. While the Sage drops a message onto the wind and the Disfavored struggles not to lose his lunch, Ryolde’s eyes slide closed. Her head drops slightly, and her whole body starts swaying lightly, as if she’s listening to music only she can hear. When she opens her eyes again, her gaze is pointed in a very specific direction, towards the horizon where the Mountain Spire hides behind the mountains that form the wall of Vendrien’s Well.

“So another Spire awakens at your command! I guess it wasn’t a fluke after all. I’m almost jealous.” The Tidecaster grins ruefully. “Though, if this power draws the kind of attention I suspect it will, I’ll probably find my envy swiftly diminishing.”

Ryolde shakes off whatever trance the Spire has pulled her under, but as she responds, her voice is still distant. “Very funny, Eb.”

Mark can feel her connection to the Spire lingering through the bond, like wind tugging on a kite. For all her crass humor, the Tierswomen is right. This kind of power is not likely to go unnoticed by anyone across the Empire. One Spire responding to Ryolde’s touch, well, that can be written off as a fluke, but two? 

He should probably tell Tunon about this.

As Ryolde turns to her little pet Sage to question him about the history of the Spires, Bleden Mark melts out of her shadow and back to the Bastard City. The days at Court that follow are more exciting than any Mark remembers in a long time. Rhogalus, the old sage, spends them combing half-frantically through all of the Courts records, seeking some kind of hint that something like this has happened before. Calio, who has already been spending more time researching the customs of the Tiers than she really should, redoubles her efforts, claiming that it’s possible this connection is something unique to the Spires of the Tiers. (Mark doubts that to be the case. Whatever power Ryolde is using to perform these feats, it comes from her, and her alone.) Even Tunon seems to be somewhat at sixes and sevens about the whole matter. In the rare moment of quiet, Mark spies a messenger bird winging north, probably headed to the capital, and most likely containing a missive from Tunon questioning Kyros for her response to these recent events.

Ryolde emerges from the Oldwalls triumphantly a few days later, and Mark has the amused thought that, in all the excitement over the Spire, no one at Court has taken the time to add trespass in the Oldwalls to her list of transgressions. Well, wisp, he thinks, if you’re going to blatantly ignore Kyros’ laws, you may as well commit to it, right? Let it never be said that Tauni Ryolde ever does anything by halves. In all the excitement, it’s easy to miss the glint of the Steadfast Insignia where it shines, pined to her leathers for safe keeping. Completely ignoring that she’s just become the most watched person in the Tiers by a long shot, Ryolde simply reports in to Ashe like any other good soldier would, taking the General’s questioning about the Spire squarely across the chest like any beleaguered Fatebinder, accustomed to Tunon’s exacting manner.

By the time Ryolde gets to Sentinel Stand, accompanied this time by the Archon of Song rather than the Tidecaster, the battle between the Unbroken and the Disfavored is already underway, but at least they aren’t sending her in on her own this time. It takes some time for them to cut through all of the defenders, but despite the Unbroken’s best efforts, they’re hopelessly outmatched, and all they can do is delay the inevitable. Eventually, the last defender falls, and Ryolde makes her way into the keep.

Inside, Straydus Herodin has holed himself up in the central rooms along with all his remaining men. Compared to the struggle it took to get here, the old man proves astonishingly easy to defeat. Within a matter of minutes, he lies on the floor, subdued, as all around him, his men lie dead or dying in pools of their own blood. With his last few breaths, Straydus gives what Mark presumes he holds to be an impressive speech, but Mark only rolls his eyes in tandem with Ryolde at the old man’s bluster. He’s been defeated, it’s over, the least the man can do is die quickly and quietly and save all of them this blather.

The Stormcaller’s final words to the man that may have had a bigger hand in Stalwart’s destruction than even she did are quick, and to the point.

“You were a fool, Straydus, and now you will die, knowing that all you did was prolong the suffering of your people.” With that, she raises her blade, ready to bury it firmly in old man’s neck and end the Regent line, once and for all.

Ryolde’s knife is making its final, deadly arc when a women darts out of an adjoining room, javelin in hand, and blocks the attack. After she has knocked the dagger aside, the woman looks up and brushes back her hair, baring her face to all in the room. Barik’s audible gasp is punctuated by a loud, metallic groaning, making it immediately clear who this woman is.

Next to Ryolde, the Disfavored captain looks similarly flummoxed. “Amelia, how…”

So this savior of the last of the Regent line is… Graven Ashe’s daughter?

It seems that the scion of the great General of the North has turned traitor. Mark has to admit. Even he didn’t see that one coming.

Once the realization sinks in, Ryolde spins the knife in her hand so that her grip is more relaxed, but, notably, does not sheath it. “Amelia, all this man’s continued existence is doing is prolonging the Edict of Storms. Even you must see that we must end it.”

Amelia doesn’t even bother to pretending to listen to Ryolde. Instead, she turns to Straydus, seeming to have an entire argument with the man. The two exchange heated words until, finally, the Straydus is able to convince her not to throw away her life in his defense. With an anguished look on her face, the girl runs from the room, seemingly unable to stomach watching the deed be done.

No one stops her.

Ryolde doesn’t say anything impressive this time around. She simply raises her dagger, and in a single, swift arc, slits Straydus’ throat. Her face is impassive as she watches him bleed out on the floor in front of them, gasping once, twice, before finally falling still. Everyone in the room tenses in expectation of some kind of reaction, but outside, the storms rage on without interruption. For a moment, the room’s occupants all turn to look at each other in confusion, before a single sound breaks the silence.

A baby’s wail rings out through the keep.

Mark watches as Ryolde’s eyes grow impossibly wide at the realization of what must have occurred, and, for the first time in all the years he’s known her, the feeling that roils through their bond and unfurls across her face can only be described as abject horror.

Well, fuck, he thinks.

 The dawning terror currently holding Ryolde’s insides in a vice grip only increases as they approach the only open door in the hall, only to be stopped in their tracks by Amelia, who places herself firmly in front of the open doorway. She’s changed back into her Disfavored armor, and there’s a stubborn set to her jaw, as if she’s daring Ryolde to even try to get through her, but her empty hand, the one not holding her javelin, is clenched into a shaking fist.

Ryolde looks past Amelia’s dark blonde hair and spots a crib in the room behind her, and, for a moment, she wants nothing more than to turn around, leave Sentinel Stand, and pretend this whole nightmare never happened. She wants to go to Court and beg Bleden Mark to do her job for her, because there’s no way this is going to end well, and damnit, she just doesn’t want to have to look at that damned infant for any longer than she has to. But she meets Amelia’s eyes, and, in them, sees reflected the same fear she felt when she was eighteen and staring down the Archon of Shadows. She sees herself and Amelia both, two mothers ready to fight a battle they’re doomed to lose, if only to have a chance of saving their children, and knows that no amount of running away will release her from the responsibility she has to fix this, not just as a Fatebinder, but as the Stormcaller, and, most of all, as a mother herself.

Amelia straightens her shoulders, steadying herself before speaking. “Stay away from my daughter! You will not have her.”

“Oh, no… by the Archon’s mercy, don’t let this be so!” A soft, metallic howling from behind Ryolde tells her what exactly Barik thinks of the whole affair. She’ll have to deal with his impending breakdown later. The knowledge that Graven Ashe’s daughter, the blood of the Great General himself, has sullied her line by mating with one of the Regents of Stalwart must be distressing indeed.

Ryolde, however, has bigger problems than the purity the Archon of War’s bloodline. “How is this possible?” Of course, having watched the way that Amelia leapt to the defense of Straydus Herodin, Ryolde has her suspicions – three years is a long time, after all, and it isn’t as if she is unfamiliar with being taken from your parents to a new and unfamiliar place and building a home there. Still. She wants to hear it from the woman’s own mouth.

Amelia’s face remains grim. “My… my union with Straydus the Younger. He showed me kindness behind these walls, and taught me about Stalwart and the Tiers – the culture and heritage that makes these people the pride of the realm.” She turns away, only for a moment. “He died in the third year of the Conquest. A Disfavored spear pinned him to the ground he fought to defend, and he never rose again.”

For a second after hearing Amelia tell the story of what she apparently understands the love affair between her and Straydus the Younger, Ryolde is so mad at her that she could spit. And, what, she wants to say. Do you expect me to weep for your fallen love? She’s angry at this girl’s naiveté, at this fucking mess she’s made, at the position she’s put Ryolde in, all because she couldn’t keep her legs closed. Then Amelia’s gaze meets hers again, and Ryolde’s anger goes from a boil to a simmer. Can she really blame her? After all, is her own story so different?

“Did you know this would prolong the Edict?” In the face of all this chaos, Ryolde falls back onto what she’s been trained to do: solve problems and remove obstacles to the enforcement of Kyros’ Laws.

At this, Amelia looks completely unapologetic. “We suspected that the bloodline would implicate my baby in Kyros’ eyes, but I knew nothing until this moment.” She shakes her head, and her lip curls in disgust. “Don’t ask me to interpret the Overlord’s heartless design.” In all honesty, Ryolde feels that this current circumstance is more Amelia’s doing than the Overlord’s – the Overlord had no way of foreseeing that such a child would be born during wartime, after all – but she says nothing as Amelia continues. “I have no love for this Edict, if that’s what your asking. It’s torn a noble realm to pieces, fractured the pillar of their culture, and ruined countless lives.”

Thanks, I do my best work when channeling a tyrannical dictator’s “heartless” designs.

Amelia’s eyes harden. “But I have a responsibility to the people of Stalwart to preserve their heritage and leadership. My father and the other Archons destroyed this nation. She and I…” for a moment, Amelia’s gaze darts back to the crib, before snapping back to Ryolde’s own. “We can help put it back together.”

All Ryolde sees is red. She thinks of her own daughter, only twelve and already a more proficient killer than most soldiers. She remembers Djin’s eyes, the joy in them when they beheld the knife Ryolde gave her, and the fear when her father interrupted them. A child is not an idea. A daughter is not a tool. Before she knows what she’s doing, she’s taken at least two strides forward, until she’s directly in Amelia’s face. Apparently, her sudden movement took the woman by surprise, or maybe it is just the lack of weapon in Ryolde’s hands that prompted Amelia to restrain herself from sticking her like a pig. Or maybe she will anyway. At this point, Ryolde can’t really bring herself to care.

“Your daughter is not some thing you can use to reunite Stalwart! She is not some disembodied personification of a heritage or a legacy!” Ryolde almost can’t recognize her own voice, it’s so raw and roaring. She jabs her finger at the air, and she doesn’t really know who she most hates in this moment: Amelia for making all these stupid mistakes, or herself, for making them first. She sees Djin again, on that morning after Anara’s suicide, how happy she was to see Ryolde and how her face fell when she had to leave. “You foolish girl! Your daughter is a person, and she will bear the consequences of your choices for the rest of her life!” By the time she’s done, she’s almost panting, her breaths coming quickly and shallowly. She can feel the wind whipping around her in tandem with her gasping, as if she’s brought the storm outside to bear on all those in the keep. As the silence continues for a few, long minutes, Ryolde grows aware of a tickling sensation in the back of her mind.

Her teeth grind against each other like stones. “Sirin. Get out of my head.”

The Archon of Song starts, as if surprised that Ryolde could sense her at all. “I’m sorry! I just had to make sure you weren’t- I couldn’t let you-“ Her eyes are wide and pleading over her stumbling. “I’m sorry.”

Ryolde sighs and turns away from Amelia and towards the Songbird. She makes some effort to soften her face. “Sirin, I promise you, I will never, ever do such a thing.” She meets Sirin’s eyes and sees the new recognition there. “And now you know why.”

As the realization of how far she’s overstepped begins to sink in, Sirin looks like she’s about to cry. “I’m so sorry, Fatebinder.”

Ryolde shakes her head. “We’ll talk about it later.” She turns back to Amelia, who looks almost chagrined. “So your daughter is the Regent heir?”

“Now that you’ve killed Straydus Herodin, she is.” Some of shame falls off of Amelia’s face, and she musters up a glare. “She has nothing to do with Kyros or the Edict. You have no right to judge her on the basis of blood!”

Ryolde almost interjects that she is a representative of Tunon the Adjudicator. If anyone has a right to judge this child, it’s her.

“The Regent remained in Sentinel Stand for her protection. The Edict was his responsibility to shoulder, not hers.” Amelia sets her jaw, and raises her javelin slightly, as if to show Ryolde that she’s still ready for a fight. “My daughter will not be another victim of Kyros’ conquest. She has the blood of the North coursing through her veins, and no one has the right to take her life.”

Once again, Ryolde almost feels compelled to remind her that, as one bestowed with the right of Adjudication, she can actually take the lives of those who are protected under Kyros’ Peace, but she figures that correcting this girl’s understanding of Kyros’ Laws isn’t going to help the situation at the moment. Instead, she takes pains to keep her voice gentle. “Calm down, Amelia. I’m not going to hurt your daughter.” Ryolde clenches her jaw, already mentally preparing for how much harder she’s about to make things for herself. “I’ll find another way.”

Dimitris, the Disfavored captain who accompanied them into the keep, shakes his head sadly. “Another way? Amelia turned her back on the legion. The General has no place for the disloyal, no matter whose blood flows through their veins.”

Ryolde ignores him, as does Amelia. “All the same, if you can guarantee my daughter’s life, I will return to Ashe and submit to his judgement.” She looks at the ground. “Harsh as it will be.” Ryolde says nothing. This is one family squabble she’s planning on staying far away from. Amelia looks up again. “But that still leaves us with the matter of the Edict.” Her shoulders drop, and all of a sudden, she looks a lot less like a warrior and more like a young mother, scared for the life of her infant daughter. “What could we possibly do about the Edict of Storms? Regent blood flows through my daughter’s veins.”

Ryolde forces herself to make her voice lighter than she feels. “Kyros’ laws are full of loopholes, if you know what to look for. I’ll do some research on the matter. I’m sure I can find something.”

Behind her, Dimitris takes her making light of Kyros’ laws about as well as she suspected he would. “Should we not enforce Kyros’ law rather than go around it?” She doesn’t even need to turn around to see his disapproving frown. “Either way, I’ll remain here with my men until you come back with a decision. I recommend you speak with General Ashe about the matter.”

Oh yes, Ryolde thinks, let me just pop over to Iron Hearth to tell the Archon of War that his last remaining living child has betrayed everything he stands for and mothered a child, out of wedlock, with one of his sworn enemies. I’m sure that will go over swimmingly!

She can already feel a headache pounding between her ears, but when she turns back to look at Amelia, the gratitude shining in the other woman’s eyes makes the whole mess worth it. “Thank you for looking into the matter. I’m sure that no answer could elude a Fatebinder of Tunon for long. I’ll stay here with my daughter – we have nowhere else to go, anyway.”

Ryolde nods, once, in acknowledgement. As soon as the door to the keep swings shut behind them, she allows herself to heave a large sigh. “Come on. It’s a long way to the Bastard City, but if we hurry, we should be able to make some good progress before nightfall.”

The first night after leaving Sentinel Stand, they camp in the fort in the Rust Canyons, which is now been occupied by Disfavored forces. It’s a relief, honestly, not to have to post watches after the day they’ve had, and Barik swiftly retreats to his tent. Ryolde suspects that she’s going to have to talk to him about this before long, but for now he seems to want his privacy, and she respects that. Lantry also swiftly makes for his bedroll, only taking to a moment meet Ryolde’s gaze and give her a reassuring nod before disappearing into his tent. Even though there’s no need for anyone to keep watch, Ryolde still lingers by the fire until long after the other two tents have gone dark. After some time, Sirin joins her. The Songbird is uncharacteristically hesitant, her eyes darting to Ryolde’s profile whenever she thinks she isn’t watching and darting away just as swiftly whenever Ryolde turns. With no staff or magic to keep them occupied, her fingers pick at the hem of her dress.

Finally, after enduring almost half an hour of painfully awkward silence, Ryolde sighs. “Just ask your questions, Sirin.”

Sirin doesn’t look at her. Her gaze instead settles on an overturned piece of scrap on the other side of the fire. “She’s like me, isn’t she? Your daughter, I mean. She’s not… normal.”

Ryolde laughs, slightly. “She can’t make people do what she wants by singing to them, if that’s what you’re asking.” Sirin finally turns to look at her, and Ryolde shakes her head, somewhat ruefully. “But, no, she’s not normal. She’s a wild talent, like you.”

Sirin’s lips twist as she tries to find a way to pose her next question. “And her powers… I’m guessing they come from her father.” Her eyes dart away for a moment before coming back to Ryolde. “Assuming her father is who I think he is.”

So she saw enough to even guess at Djin’s parentage. Ryolde nods, turning to watch the fire. In the flickering glow of the embers, she can almost see the color of Djin’s eyes. “Yes. She…” She smiles, though she’s not entirely sure why. “She’s a lot like her father. In many ways.”

They sit in silence for a time, both of them watching the flames crackle away. Eventually, Sirin turns back to Ryolde. “What’s her name?”

“Her name is Djin,” Ryolde says, swinging her gaze from the fire to Sirin’s eyes. “Bleden Djin.” Another smile, this time at the memory of her daughter, and at the memory of the last time she held her. “She’s twelve years old.”

At the confirmation of the identity of Djin’s father, Sirin’s eyes go wide. “Sorry, I just cannot believe the Archon of Shadows is the father of your daughter. How did that-“ All of a sudden, she stops in her tracks and shakes her head violently. “Never mind, I don’t want to think about that.”

Ryolde can’t help but chuckle. “Funny. I also don’t want you thinking about that.”

Sirin just waves her comment away, instead staring intently at the fire. Eventually she just shakes her head in wonder. “I’m trying to think of people less suited to fatherhood. I’m coming up with the Voices of Nerat… and Kyros, I guess, but that’s about it.” She turns back to Ryolde, confusion once again on her face. “How did that happen?”

Ryolde sighs, and stares up at the dust cloud above them for a moment before turning her gaze steadily ahead. “I was young, and stupid, and he was handsome. And I had foolish friends. That’s how it happened.”

Sirin shakes her head again, and they fall back into silence for a time. When Sirin speaks again, she makes sure to catch Ryolde’s gaze first. “I take it you don’t see her often?”

Ryolde shakes her head, and leans against the mental sheet behind her. “No, not really. I haven’t seen her since before the Edict of Execution, actually. She stays with her father, for obvious reasons.” A wry smile. “He’s been training her in the art of assassination since she was five. Apparently she’s becoming quite proficient.” Sirin’s eyes darken, likely remembering her own training, and Ryolde is quick to reassure her. “He’s a much better teacher than any of those forced upon you.” She keeps her voice soft; she’s not interested in minimizing the horrors Sirin has experienced, nor is she interested in blaming the girl in any way for her own suffering. She just wants to make sure that Sirin doesn’t worry, especially over something she has absolutely control over. “I trained under him myself. He was brutal, and efficient, but he never beat us, and he was never cruel.”

Sirin smiles mirthlessly. “He sounds like an angel.”

At that, Ryolde has to laugh. “Hardly.”

The two sit in silence for a time.

Ryolde can feel the sadness filling her gaze as she stares into the fire, before the light cuts out. Looking up, she sees that Sirin has stepped between herself and the flames. A soft “oof” escapes her as the Archon of Song throws herself at her, enveloping her in a clumsy hug. It’s a bit awkward, what with the giant helmet, but once her head is resting on one of Ryolde’s shoulders, Sirin hums, softly, into her ear. The song is simple, probably some kind of old nursery rhyme, but underneath it is a sense of warmth, like the arms of a mother, and underneath that, the sweet yearning for something you may never have. Ryolde feels the tension drain from her muscles, and even some of the constant fear she feels for Djin leaves her bones.

“What was that for?” She asks, once Sirin releases her.

The Songbird smiles softly. “You looked like you needed it.”

Ryolde’s laugh is so light it can barely be counted as a true laugh. “I guess I did. Thank you.”

Sirin bobs her head once, nodding, before turning to make her way to her tent. Watching her leave, Ryolde is struck by a sudden question. “Sirin, what happened to your mother?”

All the color drains out of Sirin’s face, and her eyes grow wide with terror as she shakes her head, almost frantically. “Please, Fatebinder. Don’t make me talk about my mother. Please. Don’t ask about her.”

Ryolde holds up her hands in a calming gesture. “It’s all right, Sirin. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I won’t ask about her again.” She smiles, in a way that she hopes is comforting. “But if you do ever want to, know that I’m always here for you.”

Sirin nods her head, slowly at first, but then faster, likely to hide the sudden sheen to her eyes. “Thank you, Fate- Ryolde.”

Ryolde lets her smile relax into something more comfortable. “Good night.”

“Good night!” Sirin smiles at Ryolde one last time, before slipping into her tent.

Ryolde watches the fire for a few more minutes, thinking of Djin and Amelia and mothers and daughters and stupid mistakes and the lengths people go for their children, before sighing and finally abandoning her search for too many answers in a fire that will offer her none at all. Maybe it’s just the aftereffects of Sirin’s song, but that night, Ryolde dreams of happier times from long ago, and wakes up with a smile on her face.

Ryolde arrives back at Court three days later. It would normally take at least four days to trek from the far side of the Blade Graves to the Bastard City, but the party’s harrowed appearance makes it obvious that she rushed their progress across the Tiers. They’ve clearly come directly from the road: Ryolde’s leathers are covered in a fine layer of dust, and there seems to be sand in the metal man’s… well, everything, with the exception of the glowing sword that now adorns his side. There are bandages on the Sage’s left arm that have clearly gone a day or two without being changed, and even the normally pristine Archon of Song is showing some signs of wear and tear.

Mark observes all of this from his usual place in a shadowy corner by the door, but Ryolde doesn’t even spare him a glance as she strides into Court, clearly intent at getting an audience with Tunon as quickly as possible. Her gait is so purposeful that all of the nobles gathered around Court split before her like water against a stone, despite her haggard appearance. When she finally comes to a halt, gazing up at Tunon where he presides over Court, Mark is struck by the image of Ryolde as a girl of twelve, small and shaking from fear before the Archon of Justice. Now, she stands before the Adjudicator as if she belongs there.

Were Mark more sentimental, he’d probably be proud of how far she’s come, not just as a combatant, but as a Fatebinder. As a person. Then he shakes the thought away. There’s no place for pride in the dumb decision she’s about to make.

Ryolde takes pains to appear patient as she waits for the trial Tunon is currently seeing to be resolved, and with regards to most of Court, she probably succeeds. Mark, however, can feel how her fingers are tensed against a desire to move. Eventually, finally, Tunon comes to a decision, and the penitent finally leaves.

Tunon acknowledges the little wisp with a slight nod of the head. “Fatebinder Ryolde. It is good to see you have not forgotten your place here in your efforts to bring order to the Tiers.”

Ryolde nods in turn. Were Tunon an even slightly more belligerent Archon, one could probably interpret what he just said to her as a threat, but in the Adjudicator’s case, it’s entirely possible that such a sentiment is the closest he can come to giving her welcome. “Archon, I hoped to seek consul on a… delicate matter. Pardon me for asking, but are you at all familiar with laws of succession in Stalwart?” Even from where he stands, Mark can tell that she’s making every effort to be as polite and unobtrusive as possible, as if, by doing so, she can erase the way her question reeks of treason.

Even with his monotone voice, Tunon still manages to show his displeasure with her line of questioning. “I do not trouble myself with the laws of conquered, savage lands – only the dismantling of their corruption.”

Of course you don’t, Mark thinks. That’s because you haven’t had an independent thought in at least 200 years.

Ryolde does an excellent job hiding her disappointment as Tunon continues. “Speak to Binder Calio. She has demonstrated great curiosity in such matters – beyond even what her station would allow.”

Mark knew there was a reason he liked Calio.

Ryolde hides her sharp inhale with a deep bow. “Thank you, my lord. That is all I wished to ask.”

“Then be on your way.” Tunon waves his gavel, already moving on to the next squabble that requires his attention.

Ryolde nods again, moving to the side to allow the next person in line to take her place before the Archon of Justice. Once the next trial is underway, she slips forward and to Calio’s side. The Fatebinder of Balance greets her with a warm smile and a soft touch on the shoulder. Mark can’t actually see Ryolde’s face, but he’s sure she returns the smile.

He has to strain his ears through the shadows to make out what the pair are saying.

“Regards, Ryolde. You look as if you needed something. What can I do for you?”

Ryolde hesitates before speaking. It’s funny; for someone who is so adept at choosing her words carefully when formality is required, she still struggles to hold her tongue around those she feels comfortable. Despite their difference in rank, she never did manage to completely tame her sharp tongue around him. “Tunon told me you expressed an interest in the traditions of the Tiers. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the laws of succession of Stalwart, would you?”

Mark doesn’t need to be looking at Calio to see she’s grinning wryly. “Funny you should mention it. Just the other day, I was poring over some old texts in the basement of a municipal building. We would do well from learning these Southern customs, even as we dismantle them.” Mark somehow doubts that Tunon would agree with that claim, but Calio has not gotten to the position she now holds without learning certain methods to “manage” the Adjudicator. “What do you need to know?”

Now that she knows that Calio shares her interest, Ryolde allows herself to cut straight to the point. “Can a baby with royal blood concede their right to the throne?”

“Not exactly. But the mother might be able to.” Calio raises an eyebrow. “There’s a story behind it, if you’re interested. Lots of Stalwart issues involve stories.”

Eying the tension in Ryolde’s shoulders, there’s no way she truly wishes to hear the whole legend behind whatever backward tradition Calio is about to describe, but she has not gotten to the position she now holds without learning how to curry favor with higher ranking members of Court. “Let’s hear it, then.”

Calio goes on to explain practically the whole legal tradition of Stalwart, most of which Mark tunes out. The important part comes right at the end. “I won’t bore you with the details, but the story ended with the fabled Queen making a simple statement to cut off an infant’s right to the throne of Stalwart.

“Thankfully for Queen Hadrium, the story was convincing enough that the people bought into the new tradition. Lucanun later died to a wasting disease, but that’s a story for another day.”

Mark can practically taste Ryolde’s bated breath. “And do you know the statement she made?”

Calio grins. “Sure do. ‘I… state your name… formally abdicate my son’s or daughter’s claim to the Regency of Stalwart – dissolving all ties, compacts, vassals, and holdings. We forfeit all protections and advantages given by the ancient bloodline.’ The Regents are usually a little more dedicated to their pomp and circumstance, but in this case I think they wanted to get the job done fast.” She pauses for a moment. “I hope that helps.”

Ryolde’s voice is thick with relief. “It does, thank you.”

Calio nods once more, and Ryolde gestures her companions to follow her as she turns to leave. Mark sinks back into his corner and waits until she’s passing by to speak.

“Remember years back, when I told you justice is just another word for the biggest sword in the realm. Claiming the Dauntless is part of establishing your own might, your own authority. Even if it’s not your style, I’d advise you to keep the blade close – it has symbolic value beyond its martial applications.”  He grants her a wry smile. “Of course, any authority you may be carving out for yourself is sanctioned only with the understanding it’s for the greater glory of Kyros.”

Ryolde gives him such a look that, were he perhaps 200 years younger, he probably would have laughed out loud. “Thanks for the warning.” She barely manages to wait until she’s turned away to roll her eyes.

He steps on her shadow, halting her progress. “Speaking of Kyros, you’re walking a dangerous line, kid,” he says, lowly. “I’d hate to think you’re getting soft.”

Her shoulders become a hard, straight line. When she turns to face him again, he can see her jaw moving as she grinds her teeth. “I’m not going to kill that little girl. If you want her dead, you’re going to have to do it yourself.” As she speaks, next to her, Mark watches as the Archon of Song gets progressively more and more nervous. Ryolde smiles, but it contains no humor and too much of the red of her gums. “Besides, I’m sure you heard Calio. There’s another way.”

Mark doesn’t bother hiding his sneer. “Do you really think you can overturn one of the Overlord’s Edicts with a legal technicality?”

Her smile drops into a twist of lips that’s not quite a smirk and not quite a grimace. “Well, we won’t know until we try, will we?” Shaking her head slightly, she turns away from him, dismissing him soundly.

When did she get so disrespectful? When did she get it into her head that she could flaunt the authority of the Court like that? Really. She should know better than that. He taught her better than that.

“Five days.” 

Her neck twists as she angles her face back to him.

“I will give you a fist to end the Edict of Storms. Then, I do it for you.”

Her eyes widen just enough that he knows that she is completely aware of what he’s threatening to do. For a second he thinks she’s just going to dismiss him again, but then again, she never did know when to leave well enough alone, did she?

Her eyes narrow, and she turns around completely. “You don’t think I can do it, do you?” She strides forward, her teeth bared and her shoulders up. “Watch me.”

She departs in a rush of dry wind, leaving the air behind her thick with static.

Ryolde is painfully aware of the passage time for every one of the four days it takes them to return to Sentinel Stand. She is weary of pushing Barik, Lantry and Sirin any more than she already has; managing to reach the Bastard City in only three days was difficult as is, but with each passing day, she feels the lost time more acutely. By the end of the third day, she’s just about ready to say fuck it, and go on without them, but even as wrung out as she is, she still knows that’s a poor decision all around. The Disfavored may control most of the Blade Grave, but the Edict of Storms has made the landscape treacherous, and who knows how many of the Unbroken are still out there.

Besides, it’s not as if the three aren’t going as quickly as they can. They heard the Archon of Shadow’s ultimatum, just as clearly as she did.

Part of her wants to think that he wouldn’t actually do it, but before she can fully form the thought, she know it to be the foolishness of a girl much younger than she is now. Mark has likely done things much more distasteful than slaying the infant child of a traitor in the name of Kyros’ Peace. And if she were a better Fatebinder, Ryolde would likely perform such acts with ease, as well.. She’s fortunate, in a way, to have discovered such an elegant solution. She doesn’t know for sure if it will work, of course. She’s not basing this hunch on anything except the feeling in her gut that tells her so, and on the certainty, in her bones, that the Edict will be satisfied with such a result. It called for the ending of the line of Regents, after all, which will be accomplished by Amelia abdicating her daughter’s right to the throne.

All the same, sleep proves troublesome to Ryolde. Rest has not come easily to her since her arrival in the Blade Graves; she suspects this may have something to do with the way the Edict of Storms howls in her blood. Whatever the cause, she spends most nights tossing and turning, and as the hours slip by and the end of the fist draws closer, doubts begin to circle. What if it doesn’t work? What if she is wrong? Mark has certainly seen far more Edicts in his long life than she has observed in her short one. If he says that such a legal loophole would be insufficient to satisfy Kyros’ Edict, why should she believe otherwise?

And what, she asks herself, late at night, when she has nothing to ward against the darkness but her thoughts, will she do if this mad scheme of her fails?

Can she truly doom the land of Stalwart to another fifty, sixty, seventy years of the Edict of Storms? And even if she were willing to do so, what kind of life would the last Regent heir have? Children would be an impossibility, and every waking moment would be spent aware that all her continued existence is doing is inflicting further suffering on her people. 

Would it not truly be better, kinder even, to simply kill the child and be done with it?

What is one life, one tragic, sorrowful life, when weighed against the good of the Empire?

In those moments, lying in the darkness, Ryolde feels a kind of sick relief in the knowledge that, should she fail, the decision will be taken out of her hands. In the next moments, she hates herself, not simply for even considering the death of Amelia’s daughter to be an acceptable solution in the first place, but for the fact that she may be able to live with it if she could only be certain that the hand holding the knife was not hers. In those moments, she thinks of Djin, and it’s a wonder that she manages not to be sick.

After four long days on the road, they finally make it back to Sentinel Stand to find it almost exactly as they left it. When they enter the keep, all eager to find some respite from the constant dust and wind, Amelia still stands before the door leading to her daughter’s crib. Ryolde wonders if the woman even allowed herself to sleep.

When Amelia looks up at their approach, Ryolde can see thick, dark circles under her eyes. “Fatebinder, have you come up with anything?”

Ryolde is so strung up with nerves that she barely manages to wait for Amelia to finish speaking before blurting out her discovery. “Abdicate your line. As Regent-mother, you have the authority. You must merely say the words.”

Amelia’s eyes grow wide with a hope she can barely seem to allow herself to feel. “Is it truly as simple as that? A clerical formality to spare an innocent life?” She lets out a small gasp, almost a laugh but for all the surprised, half-desperate belief held within. Surging forward, the daughter of the Archon of War presses something into Ryolde’s palm. “If this works, I’ll owe you more than I could possibly repay. Here. The Edict damaged this trinket, but you might still find it useful.”

Ryolde doesn’t even spare the bobble a glance before tucking it into her bag and reaching into her leathers to produce the slip of parchment whereupon she transcribed the phrasing Calio taught her. “Here,” she says, reaching out to Amelia. “This is what you should say.”

Amelia accepts the parchment gratefully. She reads over it couple of times, squinting slightly, before raising her chin to speak. “I, Graven Amelia, formally abdicate my daughter’s claim to the Regency of Stalwart – dissolving all ties, compacts, vassals, and holdings. We forfeit any protections and advantages given by the ancient bloodline.” She pauses for a second, as if waiting to see if anything will happen. “Was that enough?”

Outside, the Edict of Storms keeps raging on, but inside her chest, Ryolde feels a strange sort of relief, as if two gears have finally slotted together. She begins to nod.

A sudden silence descends upon the room.

Then, all at once, the winds outside pick up again, stronger than ever before, sending dust and debris flying through the suddenly open doors.

Ryolde gives the others a short order. “Stay here.” She doubts that any of them will listen, but she doesn’t look back as she rushes into the antechamber of the keep.

Once there, the winds whip around her, flinging dirt and arcane power against her skin with such force that she almost believes that she will die right then and there, left as nothing but bones with the flesh all scoured off. She thinks of Myothis, all those years ago, scraping her soulmark from her skin. Then the sensation in her chest grows stronger, and the storm around her feels like nothing at all.

She can feel something settling beneath her ribcage, as if the sudden weight of the storm has sanded down all of the rough edges on whatever she has been carrying inside of her since she first proclaimed the Edict. Suddenly, she feels light as a feather, barely noticing as she floats into the air. All around her, the storm seems to turn its focus on her, drawn to her as if by a magnet. She almost feels like the winds are being blown through her, into her somehow, until she’s forced to draw her arms and legs to her chest in some effort to shield herself. The pressure in her chest gets stronger and stronger and then, all at once, it pops, like a bubble, sending a warm rush into her limbs and forcing them out wide. Dimly, in the back of her mind, she is aware of the sudden silence, as all of the winds in the room abruptly die, but as whatever force had been holding her up suddenly falters and she falls to the floor, she isn’t entirely sure she hasn’t just gone deaf from the rushing of her blood in her ears. It’s only after standing up straight again that she realizes the sound isn’t just in her head.

A heavy quiet descends upon the keep, and the storms finally, finally fall silent. 

She can feel her knowledge of the Edict of Storms complete itself, as if her memory only contained a partial imprint of the words she said when she proclaimed it, and they are only now fully formed. Of course, that analogy predicates itself on her actually having remembered exactly what the words were before she ended the Edict, which she didn’t, so she supposes it’s more as if whereas before she had a half-formed feeling of what the Edict entailed, she now has a complete understanding of the Overlord’s proclamation.

Amelia’s voice jerks her out of her reverie. “Thank goodness it worked! You spared my daughter… and here I had come to expect nothing but cruelty from the servants of Kyros.” As Amelia casts her gaze back at her daughter’s crib, Ryolde finds she doesn’t have the energy to correct her. “Now we have a chance at what might never have been. A life outside of these walls.”

For a moment, Djin’s face flashes before her eyes, and Ryolde wonders if that will ever be a possibility for them. Then she almost laughs. Of course it never will be. There is no use wasting her time with foolish daydreams.

“My father can be severe and uncompromising,” Amelia continues, “but I’ll return to Iron Hearth and his protection… at least while the conflict persists. Hopefully he isn’t so consumed by the war that I can’t still appeal to him as a man and a father. I always appreciated them more than the Archon.”

Ryolde thinks of Bleden Mark, and finds herself agreeing.

“I regret none of the decisions I made to get here. We’ll disagree on that much, but at least my daughter will be safe.”

Maybe that is all they have truly accomplished, Ryolde thinks. To save one young woman from her regrets. Well, if so, it is a temporary victory, because Ryolde has been a mother long enough to know that one will always make new mistakes to regret. But maybe it is enough.

Dimitris turns to Ryolde next, saluting her with a fist pressed firmly to his breastplate. “The stalemate between the Unbroken and the Disfavored is at an end, a victory that can’t be measured in rings. Thank you, Fatebinder. I’ll remain at Sentinel Stand to secure this location, and to send word to Ashe of excellent work.”

Sparing Amelia and her daughter a glance, Ryolde is sure that Ashe will have far more words for this outcome than simply excellent, but she doesn’t bother saying anything. She just nods.

This day has been long enough already.

Amelia departs Sentinel Stand with Ryolde and her company, but when she turns to head to Iron Hearth, Ryolde and her companions continue on, to the Ocean Spire in the southwest. She needs time to fully grasp what has happened over the last four days, and she also needs to have some words with the shadow that has been accompanying them since they left Sentinel Stand. Ryolde would bet rings that Mark’s been with them for longer than that, maybe even since they left Court, but it’s only now that he’s decided to make his presence known, at least to her. She doubts any of her companions are preceptive enough to realize exactly who’s on their trail. Sirin may have been able to, but Ryolde left the girl at the Ocean Spire on their way back from Court. She didn’t want to force her to watch. In case she failed.

They don’t spend long at the Ocean Spire before departing to the Mountain Spire. It’s already dark when they arrive, and the Spire is mostly quiet; all of the workers who are normally found atop it during the daylight hours have likely retreated down to the Citadel to rest. Ryolde sends her companions down the Spire, instructing them to enjoy the opportunity to get some sleep in a real bed for once. As the top of the Spire empties, she sits down on the platform’s edge, allowing her feet to dangle over the open air.

She sits in silence for a time before she becomes aware of another presence on the Spire.

“Archon.”

“Fatebinder.”

Mark’s voice echoes from the other side of her back, and slightly up. He’s likely standing a few paces behind her, and probably enjoying the opportunity to loom over her threateningly. He can have as much fun as he wants. Ryolde’s not going to give him the satisfaction of getting to her.  

She makes sure to speak before he has a chance to, turning to look at his face above her. “You know, the next time I tell you I can do something,” she turns her head back to the front, gazing at the darkness that spreads out below them, “do us both a favor, and believe me.” She doesn’t phrase it as a question; they’ve both gone past requests long ago. “At the very least, it would save us a lot of trouble.”

Behind her, Mark hums noncommittedly, as if all of her snarling is merely that of some small animal, and he hasn’t yet decided if it’s cute or annoying. “So, tell me then, did you intend to channel the magic of the Edict?”

How like him, to ignore her complaints entirely, because when has she ever been able to shake the Archon of Shadows?

Anything, she remembers thinking. Anything to be good enough for you.

She will never be enough. She know that now.

Pushing her doubts to the side, she shakes her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. All I wanted to do was end it.”

She’s still not looking at him, but when he next speaks, she can practically see his raised eyebrow. “Is that so? Because from where I was watching, it seemed like the magic of the storm didn’t just disappear. It cracked and snapped like lightning.” She looks up just in time to see him staring down at her. The red of his face paint gleams in the dark. “How are you feeling?”

Something in Ryolde’s chest clenches at the dispassionate curiosity behind the otherwise caring words. She covers up the pain with anger. “Right now? Tired of answering stupid questions,” she says, deadpan.

Mark chuckles lowly, leaning over her, so that she is keenly aware of his position in relation to her own, how his form seems to stretch to encompass her much smaller body. “It’s a long drop.”

She can hear the sharper meaning behind the soft words, and despite herself, a flicker of fear darts its way down her spine.

She wasn’t lying. She is tired. So, so, tired of being afraid and alone and overwhelmed.

Behind her, Mark sighs. There’s a low rustling as he moves to sit at her side. “Come on, wisp. This is important. Tell me what it was like, for you.”

She closes her eyes against the urge to let her head fall to his shoulder, where the emblem of the Overlord is a striking spot against the darkness of his skin. “I don’t know what happened. The Edict just… made sense to me, I suppose. As if I’d pulled it inside me or something.” For a moment, she pauses, then shudders, thinking of her earlier conversation with Verse about her sisters. “By the Overlord, I sound like the Voices of Nerat or something.”

Mark shakes his head, keeping his gaze fixed on the shadows that stretch over Vendrien’s Well. “No, not like the Voices.” A small smile graces his lips, and he almost laughs. “Kyros’ Edicts just ‘make sense’ to you. You really are something else, wisp, you know that?”

“No, I really don’t.” Ryolde keeps her voice flat as Mark stands once more. As he steps away, she turns around with him, keeping one leg dangling over the edge of the Spire. “Where are you going?”

The red face paint around the corner of his mouth crinkles. “Someone has to give Tunon the good news.” His face goes flat again. “Speaking of which, he’s going to issue you a Court summons soon, wisp. I’d advise you not to keep him waiting.”

Ryolde nods and moves to stand herself. “Thanks for the warning.”

“Anytime, wisp.” Then, after he is already half-dissolved in the shadows, he reforms, but only partially, so that his white hair and red face paint are striking against the night sky. “By the way, do try not to die. I have no interest in searching the shadows for your corpse.”

Somehow he even manages to make something like that sound distinctly threatening. Well, let it never be said the Archon of Shadows isn’t good at his job. Ryolde rolls her eyes, but he’s already gone. On her wrist, she is distinctly aware of the weight of the bracer he gave her, as if it has somehow been made heavier by his presence. Turning her wrist around ruefully, Ryolde makes her way to the portal, glancing up at the stars one last time before allowing the magic of the Spire to whisk her back down to the Citadel, where her bed awaits.

Following her return to Iron Hearth, Graven Ashe sends Ryolde to the Burning Library, with the intent of fulfilling the demands of the Edict of Fire, but rather than go directly there, Ryolde departs instead for Lethian’s Crossing. Mark isn’t actually sure why – perhaps she simply wants some time away from Ashe’s simpering sycophants – but once she arrives at the village, her purpose there becomes obvious quickly.

She clearly just wants to get into the Spire that looms over the town, but when she gets to the entrance, she gets dragged into standing witness to the installation of the Mage-bane, a fascinating little piece of Forge-bound work that’s supposed to keep the settlement safe from the Bane. Then some of those mercenaries that have been making trouble in the region crash the party, and Ryolde gets drawn into a wild chase through the Oldwalls to retrieve the helm. By the time it’s over, and Zdenya as well as her masterpiece have been safely returned to Lethian’s Crossing, even Mark can feel Ryolde’s burgeoning connection to the Spire rubbing her insides raw like sandpaper. He watches from the shadows along the ceiling as she steps into the rune hall of the Sunset Spire. Her footsteps echo through the near empty room, as do those of her companions, but even before the Spire begins to awaken, Mark is struck by the impression that Ryolde belongs here.

Sure enough, in short order, the Spire has awoken and Ryolde and company have been pulled to the top, just as was the case with the other two Spires she has claimed since arriving in Vendrien’s Well. At this point, even her companions seem at least somewhat used to the sensation of teleportation.

Ryolde spends yet another fist in Lethian’s Crossing, ensuring that affairs at the Sunset Spire (including the forge she establishes there soon after arriving) are running smoothly. For most of this time, Mark splits his days between lurking at Court, catching snippets of Ryolde’s activities, and overseeing Djin’s training.

She’s come far, even in the few years since the Conquest began, and her affinity for shadows has progressed especially quickly. Even at only twelve, she’s already proving capable of manipulating her own corporeal form, even going so far as to do so as she fights. It’s getting harder and harder for her trainers to even see where she is most of the time, much less actually hit her. Soon, Mark thinks while watching her, he will have to resort to other methods of education for his littler wisp. He may even have to take over her training himself.

Of course, it is possible that Djin’s training will not be his concern for much longer, if he knows Kyros as well as he suspects he does. In the quieter moments, he marvels that she has not already come for Djin. To allow someone to gain such power without the Overlord’s oversight, well… If Kyros wants to make stupid, overconfident decisions, then Mark has no intention of keeping her from it.

After four days spent in Lethian’s Crossing, Ryolde can put off going to the Burning Library no longer, and she finally leaves the Sunset Spire, Sage in tow. Mark only checks on her sparingly while she transverses the remains of the Vellum Citadel. There aren’t many shadows for him to slip through there, on account of everything being on fire, and the large rivers of lava certainly don’t make things easier. Sometimes Mark wonders how anything gets done at all in the Empire, what with Kyros’ strange love for Edicts that do nothing but make everything more difficult. Well, he supposes that’s likely the point, but either way, it’s hardly of any concern to him if Kyros wants to make her own life harder. 

It’s while Ryolde is picking her way through the Burning Library that the order finally arrives.

There is one who has seemingly decided she wishes to play a game of Edicts. I believe you are already familiar with this Tauni Ryolde. Observe her, and, if she should become a threat to my rule, eliminate her.

My dear blade, I trust you will remember to act in the best interests of the Empire.

Oh, what glee Kyros must have felt, penning this missive.

So many centuries on Kyros’ leash, and now Ryolde has given her the gallows upon which to string him up.  

As he reads the Overlord’s words, the marking on his wrist burns.

Chapter Text

When Ryolde returns to the Mountain Spire after settling matters in the Burning Library (and ending the Edict of Fire, but ending Edicts is quickly becoming the least exciting part of her life), there is a missive waiting for her there bearing the seal of the Archon of Secrets. Her first instinct upon seeing the seal is to toss the entire letter into one of the many braziers that dot the top of the Mountain Spire, but she stills her hand and reads it instead, only to feel her stomach turn, slightly, at the words contained within. She’s no stranger to blood and gore – hasn’t been since she was thirteen – but there’s something about the unabashed glee and unrepentant madness in the Voice’s words that leaves a sour sensation deep in her gut. By the time she’s fought her way through the threats and detailed descriptions of the torturous acts he’d like to perform on her person, she’s barely got the energy to muster any surprise at the claims about Verse’s sisters.

Verse approaches her later that evening.

“Couldn’t help but notice the bird from Cacophony.”

Ryolde doesn’t bother asking the Scarlet Fury how she recognized the missive by the damned bird. Instead, she holds out the missive to her. “Do you want to read it for yourself?”

Instead of taking the slip of parchment, Verse tucks a hand behind her neck. “Why don’t you just… tell me what it says.”

For a second, her mind jumps back to the script on Ver’s arm. She much not know what it says. “You can’t read, can you?”

Verse’s hand drops to her side. “Yeah, well, it’s never struck me as the most useful fucking skill.” Her voice loses some of its edge, becoming softer. “And once the Conquest started… well, let’s just say, it wasn’t exactly a priority of mine.”

Ryolde lowers her hand, feeling a smile come to her face. “I understand,” she tells Verse, though having grown up as the eldest child of a noble family in one of the most highly educated cities in the Empire, it’s only mostly a lie. “I could teach you, if you’d like.”

Verse offers her half a smile, but though the expression is small, there’s real gratitude in it. “Yeah, that would be… nice. Maybe when all this civil war nonsense is over, assuming we’re both still alive.” Her face becomes stern again. “All that aside, tell me, what’s the boss what from us now?”

Ryolde takes a deep breath before speaking. “He thinks he’s found one of your sister’s killers.”

“Wait, what?” The news transforms Verse’s entire posture. All of the sudden, she’s leaning forward eagerly, fists clenched in front of her. There’s a glimmering sheen of bloodlust in her mismatched eyes. “He found one of the shits that killed my Furies? Let’s pack up and go!”

Ryolde’s going to need more information before she flaunts off in search of trouble with only the words of a madman to go by. “And just who is this person?”

Verse looks like she’s only listening with one ear. “I don’t know who he is exactly. Someone who helped murder my sisters-in-arms. But we know where to find him, right? Let’s go pry the whole story from him.”

“There’s something else, too. These strange symbols on the back.” This time, when Ryolde passes the parchment to Verse, she takes it, unfolding it and staring at the back.

A wry smile spreads across the Scarlet Fury’s face. “There’s a lot to love about spy craft. The trickery, the blade work, keeping your senses, balancing on the edge between confusion and discovery…” The smile drops into a frown. “Memorizing the Archon’s childish pictographs? Not my favorite part.” She studies the parchment for a few moments before speaking again. “Melphora… she’s one of Harchiand’s people. A bit boring, but gossipy in a way that pays. We should be able to find her along the road to Lethian’s Crossing.”

Wonderful, Ryolde thinks. I was waiting for an opportunity to turn around and go back the way we came.

“And are we to assume that she will part with information willingly?” Not that Ryolde minds a bit of torture now and again, but a warning would be nice, if only so that she makes sure that she wears shoes she doesn’t mind getting covered in blood.

Verse shakes her head. “The Voices gave us pass phrases that will get Malphora to open up to us. When we find her, let me do the talking and everything will go as smooth as seaglass.”

Ryolde barely manages to contain a chortle. There’s a sentence you don’t hear from a Scarlet Fury every day.

Verse gives her a grin that gleams with blood thirst, once again the brutal killer Ryolde has known her to be. “This is going to feel good, Binder. Wildly, incredibly, stupidly good.”

Ryolde hates to be the one to rain on her little revenge procession, but one of them has to be the rational one, and she has a feeling it isn’t going to be Verse, at least not for a while. “The Archon’s sudden interest in your revenge doesn’t seem suspicious to you?”

Verse shrugs in a way that speaks more to a dismissal of Ryolde’s concerns than to any kind of serious consideration of them. “Why? Even if it is a trap, I’ll have you there to watch my back.” She smiles once again, vicious, and full of teeth. “Won’t I, Fatebinder?”

For a moment, Ryolde wonders if this is what would become of her, if she were to lose one of her brothers or sisters of the Court to an enemy she could kill. She just nods. “Of course you will.”

Verse’s smile grows wider. “Then let’s go.”

With the help of Nerat’s contact, they find the first member of the band that killed Verse’s sisters, a man unfortunately named Krokus, in a small hollow just off of the trade road known as Hunter’s Respite. The man himself is huge, a good head and a half taller than Ryolde at least, with a massive ax and beard to match, but what he has in muscles, he clearly lacks in brains. He’s all bluster and insults, up until the point that Ryolde introduces herself and, more importantly, Verse, and it’s clear that they are no mere travelers or raiders.

“I’m about to adjudicate your fucking heads open. Justice for my Scarlet Fury sisters.”

Verse’s threat makes Ryolde chuckle. Adjudicate your fucking heads open. Now, there’s one she hasn’t heard before. She wonders if Tunon would approve.

Probably not.

“Oh… shit.” Krokus’ eyes go wide as he finally realizes the doom that has descended upon him. “To arms! To arms!” He screams, as if that will save him.

It doesn’t.

The battle, if it even deserves to be called that, is over swiftly, and Krokus is soon cowering on the ground as his blood pools around him. Once he’s been brought low, the man pleads and blubbers like a child, telling them, through tearful sobs, about Irissa and Catorius and his Kyros-damned wife for some reason, as if that will convince an enraged Scarlet Fury to spare him. Actually, scratch that comparison. Even Djin would have more resolve than this, Ryolde thinks.

Krokus swings his head from Verse to her. Ryolde watches the panic rise in his beady eyes and feels nothing inside. Nothing but contempt. “I’ve sworn fealty to Kyros! Please, please, Fatebinder, just let me go!”

Ryolde leans forward, just barely keeping her lips from touching Krokus’ bloody ear. “Yes, you did.” She turns her head slightly, so that she’s looking at a streak of blood on his bald pate. “But so do all members of the Scarlet Chorus, and murder is a crime under Kyros’ Peace.” Even if she were to make a sound as she slides the knife out from her sleeve, his desperate panting would be more than enough to stifle it. Just as silently, she swings her blade in a vicious arc.

When she steps back to Verse’s side, she takes the ear with her.

Krokus screams.

Ryolde watches the display before flicking the ear away dispassionately. She really shouldn’t have worn her nice boots. “He’s all yours, Verse.”

She strides forward. “This is for Seeking-Sheath.” Verse smiles viciously as she saws through Krokus’ neck. When she turns back to face Ryolde, the entire chest piece of her armor is covered in blood. “Thanks for that, Binder.” She makes a show of wiping her hands clean, but with the amount of blood, dirt, and vicera on her armor, the whole effort was likely fruitless from the start. “Irissa’s next. Let’s go.” She turns to go, but stops just a quickly.

She sighs as she looks back to Ryolde.

“Seeking was special, you know.”

Ryolde lets her shoulders drop, feels her head tilt, just a bit. “Tell me about her.”

“Seeking was all dynamo. Short, with hair like moss on a stone and skin the color of the night sky. Laughed at everything, even insults.” As she speaks, a smile spreads across Verse’s face. It’s almost uncharacteristically soft, but somehow the expression seems to fit on her face. “She never stopped moving. If we camped, she paced the tents or the palisades, always pushing us to get on.” She chuckles, suddenly, as if surprised to have found a reason to laugh. “Part of it was the gambling. People stopped taking her bets after a day or two. The first time she says she can put a javelin through an apple at a hundred yards, a man puts rings down. The second time, he’s willing to go double or nothing. The third? That’s when he stops betting.”

Ryolde finds herself picturing a tiny woman cleaning out the more foolish members of the Scarlet Chorus and can’t find it in her to hold back her laugh. “She sounds amazing.”

Verse’s chuckle turns into a full-blown laugh, that joins Ryolde’s in echoing about the campsite. “Kyros’ crooked cock, was she!”

Even after the laughter fades away, the smile stays on Verse’s face. “Crazy thing about Seeking? It wasn’t raw talent. She practiced that shit, the spear work and the javelins. Practiced every hour she wasn’t sleeping or on assignment. She’d thread the sky with three or four javelins and dance towards her foe with a spear longer than she was tall. She’d knock a soldier’s feet out from under him and let the javelin pin him to the ground. That’s her name: her spears found their marks as if they sought them.”

Ryolde can no more keep the snarky remark in her throat than she can change the length of the day. “Really? I thought it was a sex thing.”

Thankfully, Verse looks like she finds the comment more humorous than insulting. “It was that, too. Her name meant more than spear-play. Seeking always sought. Always looked for new things. New experiences. New stories, new men, new bits of lore. In summer, she’d collect stinging insects, fill thin clay jars with them, and smash them against her foes. No fight was ever even for Seeking. You either got the drop, or you got dropped.”

Ryolde thinks of her own fighting style, all thin blades and misdirection, and thinks that Seeking-Sheath must have been a warrior after her own heart.

“Thanks. You know, for listening.” Verse shakes her head, as if trying to remove water from her ears. “Let’s go. This Oathbreaking scumsack won’t hunt herself.”

They end up leaving Aesa’s daughter, who somewhat miraculously managed to sleep through the whole affair, with enough rations to survive the trip to Lethian’s Crossing, before departing themselves for the Blade Graves.

That night, at camp, Verse cracks her neck loudly before propping her feet up on a stump and turning to look at where Ryolde sits, nibbling on the fish skewers they roasted over the fire. “So, Fatebinder, if we’re sharing life stories, what’s yours?”

On the other side of the fire, both Barik and Lantry try to look up with interest, without being too obvious. Lantry, for all the rustling of parchment that usually follows his every movement, is still easily more subtle than Barik could ever hope to be; as the Disfavored Stone Shield turns, the metal of his helm scraps against the shoulders of his armor with a low screeching noise.

Ryolde sighs, and looks at Verse flatly. “It’s not that interesting of a story.”

Verse just grins. “Then it shouldn’t take much time to tell it.”

Ryolde inhales deeply again. It’s clear the Scarlet Fury has no intention of letting the matter drop, and, judging by the abrupt silence from her other two companions, Ryolde would wager that she can expect no help to come from either of them. She looks up at the stars briefly before speaking. “Let’s see… I was born in the Remani Protectorate around the year 400 TR, to a family of nobles in the city of Samoid. Officially, Samoid was under the purview of the Archon of Spheres, but he was far more interested in his magical research than in anything resembling administration, and, as such, left the aristocracy of the city mostly ungoverned. Of course, being nobles, they did what all nobles do when left to their own devices: fell back on their age-old traditions of squabbling, excess, and backstabbing.”

As she speaks, Ryolde feels a kind of fog settle over her mind. It’s been nearly a decade since she’s had any cause to think of her parents or her homeland, and she isn’t sure if she relishes the opportunity to revisit such matters or if she simply wishes for this to be over as quickly as possible. Dimly, she wonders if that’s the sound of Lantry’s quill scratching on parchment that she hears over the crackling of the fire, but she puts the matter aside. It isn’t as if her background is anything incriminating.

She finds herself gazing into the fire as she continues. “My parents were aristocrats of the worst sort: petty, ambitious, vain. Spineless. Eventually, they decided it was a good idea to double-cross some minor Archon from the region… the Archon of Crows? If I recall correctly? So the whole family was dragged before the Archon of Justice.” Even now, she huffs out a laugh at the memory of how pathetic her parents were back then. “Mother and Father crumpled like tissue paper in front of Tunon. Given that I had no interest in being put to the sword for my parent’s crimes, it fell on me to defend them. So I did.” She looks back up at Verse and spread her fingers wide. “Apparently, whatever I said, it was enough to impress him.”

Lantry is the only one both brave enough and curious enough to ask. “And your parents? What happened to them?”

At this, Ryolde definitely has to laugh. “Oh, they were guilty. Without a doubt. But Tunon gave them a chance to reaffirm their loyalty to Kyros and they took it.” She opens her arms, as if to say, and here I am.

Lantry’s eyes grow wide with the realization, but Verse is the one who ends up actually giving voice to the question. “And that… demonstration was… you?”

Ryolde nods, slowly, almost afraid that if she moves her head too quickly, something disastrous will happen. This is the first time, she realizes. The first time she has ever discussed her parents with anyone else.

“A firstborn is a grand sacrifice to make in the name of the Overlord,” she says, as if all the pretty words in the world will wash away what they did. How they dropped her into Tunon’s lap like a hot coal the minute the opportunity presented itself. She shrugs. “I’ve served in Tunon’s Court ever since.”

A creaking emanates from deep within Barik’s helmet. “Wait a minute, just how old were you?”

Ryolde watches Barik out of the corner of her eyes. “I was twelve.” When he leans back as if struck, Ryolde almost laughs. “I never said it was a happy story. I simply said it wasn’t that interesting.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence before Ryolde shrugs. “It really wasn’t as bad as you’re probably making it out to be. All I was ever going to be for my parents was a tool, to be used for the betterment of their station in some manner. And that’s what they did.” Ryolde allows herself to grin wryly. “Even if it wasn’t in the way they imagined.” The grins falls off of her face. “If I’m going to be a tool, at least in the Court I’m a valuable one.” Ryolde looks up and meets Verse’s eyes, spotting the understanding there. “Tunon took me from nothing and turned me into something. He trained me and taught me and gave me authority. Everything I am today, I am because he made it of me.”

Verse chuckles, the somber tone of the evening broken. “Well, Fatebinder, the way I see it, you got lucky. You’d have been wasted otherwise. Can you imagine? Marrying some noble, popping out heirs until you die?” Ryolde thinks of Djin, and wonders how the someone can be both so perceptive and so oblivious at the same time. Verse shakes her head. “No, you’d never be happy with some quiet life. I’ve seen you fight. You enjoy it too much.”

For a moment, Ryolde thinks of that dark pride that sat deep in her stomach as she watched Mara bleed out in front of her, the same satisfaction she’s felt in every fight since, and she knows that Verse is right. She thinks once more of those nightmares from all those years ago and wonders if maybe she was only ever going to be a killer.

On the other side of the fire, Lantry finally looks up from the parchment he’s been scribbling on. “Speaking of combat, I assume you didn’t learn that from the Adjudicator.”

Ryolde leans against the tree behind her, makes herself more comfortable on the patch of ground she’s claimed as her own. She feels her lips twist on her face into something that may look like a smirk. “And is this for the Chronicle, Lantry, or are you asking out of personal curiosity?”

The Sage sucks on the end of his quill for a moment before answering. “A bit of both, I suppose. I confess, we never did have a great deal of records on the Court of Fatebinders back at the Citadel, and those records we did have, well, to call them severely lacking would be an understatement! So, let’s call this personal professional curiosity.”

A metallic groan fills the clearing as Barik crosses his arms. “I’m curious too, Binder. The way you fight… it’s not like anything I’ve seen before.”

Feeling the gazes of all three of her companions on her, Ryolde straightens her shoulders. “And what is this? A little game of interrogate the Fatebinder?”

Verse squints a bit and peers at Ryolde out of the corner of her eyes. “You know, I don’t think I’d want to play that game with you.”

The right corner of Ryolde’s lip hitches up. “Of course you don’t. You’d lose.”

Verse’s grin takes on a perverse edge. “Or maybe I’d definitely want to play with you, Binder. Depends on the mood we’re in.”

At this, Ryolde has to roll her eyes, though the gesture is made somewhat less exasperated by her accompanying chuckle. “Do you want me to answer the question or not?”

Pressing her lips together as if to demonstrate that she’s done talking, at least for now, Verse grins, stretching her legs out in front of her. Where he sits on the other side of the campfire, Lantry readies his quill.

Ryolde takes a deep breath. “Usually there are senior Fatebinders who handle such things. You’ve met some of them: Rhogolus, Nunoval, Calio. But every now and then, Tunon rounds up his most promising trainees and lets Bleden Mark have his fun with them.” She brings her thumb up to her lips as she works to remember. “There were five, my year, I believe?” She looks to the side for a moment. “Was I really the only one…? No, Olimir made it.” She laughs, once, just a momentary shaking of the shoulders. “But then again, it’s hard to be a Fatebinder with half of your limbs missing.”

Lantry’s eyes go so wide Ryolde can see the whole of the campfire reflected in them. Next to him, a loud grinding sound emanates from Barik as he settles himself more deeply against the ground. “This training offered by the Archon of Shadows must be quite impressive if he is allowed such free rein to kill recruits.” The Stone Shield’s disapproval is obvious.

Ryolde can think of a myriad of ways to answer him: she could remind him of the results that he bears witness to each day, or point out that it isn’t as if the training undergone by the Disfavored is that much less brutal – they just don’t enjoy the protection of a mythical aegis. The day has been long, however, and she’s never had a gift for holding her tongue when tired.

She laughs, throwing her head back. “Oh, no, no, no. You don’t understand.” She makes sure to meet the gaping holes that are Barik’s eyes before continuing. “He didn’t kill us. We killed each other. For him.”

Ryolde can practically hear the thud as Barik’s jaw hits the inside of his helm. Oh, the poor man. Maybe it’s cruel of her, to shock him like that, but, well, she’s never been the kindest person on Terratus.

Verse tosses her head back and laughs, louder than Ryolde remembers her doing in quite some time. “You know,” she says, as she stands, “I understand you so much better now, Fatebinder.” She walks across the camp site, heading for where her bedroll is laid out, and as she passes, she turns back to look at Ryolde. There’s a hard edge to her eyes, as if she has something to prove. “If you ever want to show me some of what your fancy Archon training taught you, I’m game.”

Ryolde grins up at her in a way that probably contains too many teeth. “You’re on.”

They discover the remains of the Unbroken band Irissa must have traveled with in a tattered camp on the edge of the Blade Graves. The Unbroken’s armor is dented and worn, and even their weapons are showing signs of overuse, but that doesn’t stop their captain from displaying that tell-tale arrogant eyebrow turn that Ryolde has come to expect from his kind. Next to her, she can hear the clanking sound as Barik’s fist clenches at the captain’s mention of “Ashe’s inbred handmaidens.” While Ryolde has to appreciate the man’s humor, she doesn’t appreciate the way every single one of the damned Unbroken respond to her introduction by leveling various sharp implements in her direction.

That’s what she gets for being the Stormcaller, she supposes.

Exasperated, she turns to Verse. “We’re here. Ask your questions.”

Verse steps forward, clearly rubbing her hands together to prevent them from reaching for her weapons. “We want Irissa. Unless you want a few more scars on that ugly mug of yours, I suggest handing her over.”

Clattering fills the canyon as all of the captain’s men ready their weapons. “Hollow threats don’t bow the Unbroken Union of Stalwart.” At this point, Ryolde isn’t above stabbing the old man on principle alone. Doesn’t he understand that the so-called “Unbroken” have already fallen? “If you think I intend to surrender one of my soldiers to you,” the man continues, “it’s a misunderstanding I’m only too willing to rectify.”

Hidden out of sight by her body, Ryolde allows one of her daggers to slide into her palm. She can feel sparks dancing along the corners of her eyes as she strides forward, making her voice hard and clear. “I seek Irissa for matters of Court, and you will recognize my authority.”

In all honesty, probably not the smartest thing to say, but at this point, Ryolde is beyond tired with these damn Tiersmen who refuse to realize that they’ve lost.

All around them, the Unbroken edge closer as they level their weapons at their heads. As they make to encircle Ryolde’s little company, their captain speaks for them. “We don’t answer to the court at Bastard City. We are Unbroken, and Stalwart is ours!” Some of his men underscore this proclamation by beating their weapons against their armor and generally making a lot of meaningless noise. “Let’s show them why we’re called Unbroken!” At his command, his men collapse on them, screaming like the winds that covered the Blade Graves for so long.

Ryolde takes more pleasure in cutting them down then she probably should.

Once the fight is over and the last “scion of Stalwart” lies in a pool of his own blood, Ryolde looks to Verse, who promptly curses.

“Shit! None of these people were there when my sisters died!” Her head turns as she darts her gaze across the carnage. “Check these bodies with me. Maybe there’s something here that will help.”

Once Ryolde’s worked her way through the mound of viscera that is the remains of the Unbroken captain, she finds what’s left of his belongings: a crumpled piece of parchment and a bundle of leather wrapped in cloth. She passes the bundle to Verse. “Here.”

As Verse takes the bundle, she peers at the bloody parchment left in Ryolde’s hands. “What have you got there?”

Ryolde allows her eyes to scan the missive (which is in impressively good handwriting, for a backwater savage).

Diocles, or whoever succeeds him-

I came to Stalwart with little I didn’t need for the fight. Only these gloves, a trophy from a skirmish long past. Should I fall at Trapper’s Junction, see to it that they return to my sister, Clea, at our family’s homestead at River’s Break, in Apex.

Tell her to use them well, and that I wish I could have been there to deliever them myself.

Thank you for this.

-Irissa

Ryolde nods toward the bundle in Verse’s hands. “Irissa wanted those gloves given to her sister, one Clea of River’s Break.”

Verse’s eyes go wide. “Did you say gloves?” She scrabbles at the ties holding the package together, tearing them in her efforts to reveal its contents. Once the shreds of cloth have fallen to the ground, she is left holding two supple leather gauntlets with sharp metal barbs stitched onto the guard. “Fuck… I’ve missed these.”

Ryolde lifts her gaze from the gloves to Verse. “Do you recognize them?”

“They belonged to one of my Furies.” She looks at the scraps on the ground, clearly trying to figure out how to return the gauntlets to their protected state, before Ryolde removes one of the wrappings in her bag and hands it to her.

Verse doesn’t speak again until the wrappings are back in place. “So,” she says, looking up from the gauntlets once more. “Irissa had a sister. A sister for a sister, then. There’s a certain poetry in it, right?” Ryolde doubts that Verse, who is, after all, illiterate, has the slightest sense of what poetry actually entails, but as Verse continues, she grows more concerned about the general fruitlessness of the venture. “We need to find this Clea. She must know something about who Irissa ran with during the war, right. And who knows? Maybe she’ll turn out to be someone in need of a good stabbing through the face.”

All right, Ryolde thinks. Enough is enough. “You know you can’t avenge yourself on a dead person, right? Killing her sister won’t hurt Irissa.”

Verse looks at the ground for a moment before meeting Ryolde’s gaze once more. “Yeah, I know. Kinda sucks, right?” She frowns. “Don’t worry. I won’t stab anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”

That doesn’t exactly help, Ryolde thinks. You see, Verse, that’s exactly what I’m afraid of.

They get to River’s Break to discover a small, cozy looking homestead. The sun is just beginning to dip beneath the mountains of Vendrien’s Well, but despite the late hour, a woman still busies herself working at one of the small beds that dot the area. Unlike most of the rest of the valley, where the air has become saturated with the stink of blood and sweat and battle, the air around the cottage smells of stew, cooking on the fire, and freshly baked bread. With the river burbling in the background, the scene is practically idyllic.

A wonderful setting for a murder, Ryolde thinks, mostly sarcastically.

As they get closer to the farmwomen, she reaches for her shovel, holding it before her as one might hold a spear. Her grip on the implement in sure and strong, but when she stands, she is slow, and she clearly favors once side over the other. Nevertheless, Ryolde thinks, this woman has more than a passing familiarity with war, and she was strong enough to survive.

The woman peers at them through narrowed eyes. “Careful, stranger. I’m no easy mark, and have little worth your time or blood.” Her hair, where it has fallen out of her bun to frame her face, gleams silver in fading sun.

Verse’s eyes make note of what Ryolde has already seen for herself. “Hm. She may be old enough to be my mother, but she holds herself like a warrior trained.”

There’s no need to them to get off on the wrong foot. “Nice farm,” Ryolde says, stepping forward with her palms open to show her lack of armament.

The woman’s eyes narrow as she tries to discern if Ryolde is lying or planning something. Finally, seeing no signs of either, she purses her lips. “Hmph. Thank you for the kindness. Were shared with my husband before he died. Not much to look at, but kept the family fed.” She repositions her grip on her shovel, bring it forward as if to underscore her words.  “Compliments ain’t answers, though. I ask again, what brings you here?”

“And before we introduce ourselves, mind doing us the courtesy of telling us who you are?”

In response to Ryolde’s words, the woman levels her shovel at her. “I’m the woman who tills this soil, mends these walls, and protects them with her blood. I’m supposed to be here. You’re the ones who should be announcing themselves.”

Fine, Ryolde thinks, staring at the edge of the shovel. In the light of the sun’s last rays, it gleams as if it were a blade of the finest iron. Have it your way.

“Fiesty. I like this old coot.” Ryolde almost starts at Verse’s whispered words, they’re so unexpected. When she turns to look at the Scarlet Fury, she’s finds her wearing an uncharacteristic grin.

The woman, whoever she is, is having none of it. “Girl, this old coot has split skulls twice as thick as yours.”

Verse’s response is louder. “Good hearing, too.”

Ryolde pushes the chuckle back down her throat. “We’re here seeking Clea.”

At the name, the woman falls back as if struck. “Clea? Clea was my youngest. Why are you asking after her?” As her eyes widen, she drops the shovel slightly, so it’s pointing at Ryolde’s middle rather than her neck.

Verse’s eyes widen in tandem. “Was? Shit. Don’t tell me we’re too late.”

Quick as a spark, the woman regains her firm grip on the shovel, jabbing it at Verse. “I’ll have you keep a civil tongue in your head, girl, while you’re on my land.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” When Ryolde looks at Verse in shook, she finds her blinking rapidly, as if surprised at her own words.

Ryolde has to ask. “You ok?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Ryolde turns back to the woman, barely holding the grin off of her lips. “Did you do something to my friend?”

She just raises an eyebrow. “Do something? Sorcery, you mean?”

Verse’s response comes out hissed through clenched teeth. “I said I’m fine, Binder! I was just… she took me by surprise, is all.”

Setting her face, Ryolde turns back to the matter at hand. “What happened to Clea?”

The woman grips her shovel even tighter, so tightly that, for a moment, Ryolde fears she can hear the wood creaking. Her eyes narrow. “First things first. Call me Essa, daughter of Asperia. And this,” she gestures around her with her shovel, “is my homestead, granted me by Queen Vendrien Alanta in honor of my service.” She swings her shovel back around to once again point it at Ryolde. “That’s an introduction. You got one to match.”

Ryolde nods. “I am Tauni Ryolde, Fatebinder of Tunon the Adjudicator.”

Essa’s eyes go from narrow slits to wide as dinner plates. “You’re the one ascended the Mountain Spire. They say you hung a banner woven of golden light from the battlements.Wouldn’t have believed a word of it if I hadn’t seen the glow from here.” She crosses her arms, finally angling her shovel away from Ryolde and her companions. “What does a Fatebinder want with the likes of me. I ain’t broken the Overlord’s laws.”

As far as Ryolde is concerned, this Fatebinder wants absolutely nothing from the Tierswoman. She turns to Verse. “I’ll follow your lead, Verse.”

Verse is silent for a moment, blinking. Then she nods, once, to herself, and turns to Essa. “I’m… I’m sorry, Essa, but Irissa has died.” Verse looks down at her hands for a moment, as if unsure of what she should do with them, before looking away.

Essa’s shovel falls to the ground with a clatter. “Irissa… dear girl. Dear, stupid, blind, foolish, arrogant girl.” Her crossed arms turn to grip her elbows, as if she’s scared she’s going to fall apart otherwise, and a sob shakes her thin shoulders. Ryolde thinks of Djin, how small she is, and how delicate, and, looking at the woman falling apart before her, wonders if this is what will be left of her if that fragile piece of her were to be lost.

When Essa straightens again, it’s with one question on her lips. “How’d it happen?”

Ryolde has a question of her own, first. “What happened to Clea?”

Essa looks down again. “My sweet Clea. War consigned her to the void. Lost her at Vendrien’s Well Citadel.” Ryolde feels her heart thud against her ribcage as she remembers the battle to take Ascension Hall. It’s possible that she was the one to cut Essa’s daughter down, but try as she might, she can’t recall the face of even one of the Oathbreakers she slew that day. “I told her not to take up arms again. Told her that Kyros had won good and solid, and we owed the Overlord fealty now, but I suppose I filled her with too much patriotic claptrap as a girl.” Essa looks back up, meeting Ryolde’s eyes. “Maybe she met her end under your blade. The whole of the tale never made it back.”

That’s the way it is, isn’t it? To one person, a soldier is nothing more than an obstacle. To another, they’re a mother, a brother, a child. A whole world.

“It’s my fault,” Essa says. “I raised those girls on the romance of war, on tales of bloodying the Bastard Tier and pushing back Azure. How was I to know your armies would come in their lifetimes, that the Gates of Judgement wouldn’t hold, or that you’d stride into the Tiers with a man of stone who could step clean over a curtain wall? Even girls like mine couldn’t stand against Kyros. There ain’t been nothing like that northern shadow before, able to crush mountains and call earthquakes from a scrap of vellum. There ain’t no fighting that, I told them.” Essa heaves a shuddering sigh, and for a moment Ryolde thinks of the world she grew up in, the only world she’s ever known, a world of Archons and Edicts and Magic, all wielded by a singular Overlord with authority over who lives and who dies, and thinks of how terrifyingly other that world must seem to those who have not known it since birth.

All she has ever known is life under the shadow of Archons, be they Mediatus or Tunon or even Bleden Mark, but for those who have never seen the Archon of Spheres raise a tower with a spell, or the Archon of Justice cast aside the guilty with a gesture, or the Archon of Shadows kill within the blink of an eye, how near must their power seem to that of gods?

And what, Ryolde supposes, does that make her?

She meets Essa’s eyes once more, and in them, she sees the devastation wrought by that power. “They didn’t listen, damn them. Of all the damn fool things I told them, the only thing they didn’t hear was what mattered.”

Ryolde wonders, years from now, when she is long dead or worse, which of her lessons Djin will remember. If she remembers her at all.

She shakes her head slightly, as if to clear it. “You said you trained your daughters in the arts of battle?”

Essa casts her gaze to the mud under her nails. “Aye. Their father were a good man, but more suited to farm work than war.” In a sudden, sharp movement, Essa’s eyes snap back up. “If you’re looking for someone to blame, I’d be that person. I trained them up, taught them the falx, the javelin, and the spear and the shield. And aye, they used that knowledge against your precious Archons and their armies.”

This isn’t about the Archons, Ryolde wants to cry, or even about their armies, but Verse beats her to it.

“Hey, Essa, maybe you’d like to shut the fuck up now?”

Essa ignores her, and so does Ryolde.

“What did you teach them about the Overlord?”

Essa nods, almost eagerly. “That there’s never been a graver threat to all of Terratus. That Kyros represents the worst of the powers of man or woman. That such an evil must be resisted at all costs and by any means necessary.”

No, thinks Ryolde, almost unbidden. That’s where you’re wrong. Can’t you see, that with all that power, the only way to survive is to be on the winning side?

Verse looks shocked. “What? That directly contradicts what you said before!”

Essa turns away. “Aye. I changed my tune in my older, softer years. But as they growed up, I poisoned them against Kyros as surely as if I’d carved it upon their hearts.”

Of course you did.

Ryolde casts her gaze along the farm beds that surround them. “You use all this food yourself, or have you sold it to other people in the Well?”

The fucking woman looks almost proud. “I sold some. For rings and without a Kyros-damned license, too.”

Lantry, who at this point has been silent for so long that Ryolde almost forgot he was even there, choses this moment to speak up. “So you admit to violating Kyros’ Laws in front of a Chronicler! Well young lady, this is going on the permanent record!”

Ryolde barely has a moment to register the humor of Lantry calling this grey-haired veteran young before Verse has interrupted her train of thought.

“Hey. Geriatric voyeur. You ever considered shutting your flapping gums?” Her voice can barely be heard through the hand pressed against her forehead.

Ryolde leaves the two to their antics. Instead, she levels her gaze at Essa. “Anything else you want to tell me?”

“Naming a child for Kyros is a capital offense, ain’t it? I imagine naming a pig for Kyros ain’t no better.” She gestures at the cottage. “Care to meet Kyros the Overpig? He’s around the back.”

Ryolde can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes her nose. Now, that is one she hasn’t heard before.

Verse’s shoulders drop as she rubs her hand even more furiously against her brow. “You see what’s happening here, don’t you, Binder?”

Oh, yes. Ryolde can see what’s before her very well. An old woman, with nothing left to live for, is trying to use the blood on her daughters’ hands as a means to escape this mortal coil. She looks at Essa, thinking of how she trained her daughters to fight Kyros, and sees her daughter, who is already being trained to one day kill Kyros’ enemies. Will they come for her too, one day? The families of those Djin has killed? How many untold thousands will leave traces of blood on Ryolde’s hands from where those hands once held her baby girl?

It was her, after all, who gave Djin her first real blade.

Ryolde nods, once, and firmly. “I’ve come to a decision on the matter.”

Verse drops her hand to her hip, her eyes surging forward to meet Ryolde’s. “What matter? There’s no matter here, Binder! Please tell me you’re not going through with this.”

Whatever Verse may think, Ryolde has no intent of killing an old woman for the sins of her daughters. Besides. “This is your dance, Verse. You pick the tune.”

Verse takes several steps back, blinking as if blinded by the fading rays of the sun. She looks around for a moment, as if unsure what to do now that the decision has been passed on to her, before sliding her bow onto her back and nodding. Then she turns to Essa. “We came here because Irissa… she killed one of my sisters. I always thought I needed to avenge them, to make it right, because I’d failed them.” One of Verse’s hands finds the ridge of feathers in her hair and begins tugging on them in an uncharacteristic display of vulnerability. “But actually talking to you… it’s cleared some stuff up. I guess what I’m saying is I miss my sisters and you miss your daughters, and that’s just the way of things.”

Essa nods without saying anything, before turning and shuffling back into her cramped cottage.

Once the old woman is gone, Verse reaches down, pulling a tomato off of one of the vines growing up the side of Essa’s farmstead. Tossing the tomato from hand to hand, she turns back to Ryolde.

“Irissa and Clea are dead. What does that mean for your sisters?”

The laugh that leaves Verse’s lips is almost too dark to deserve the name. “I’m sure Whispers would have something clever to say about frustrated ambitions.” She shakes her head slightly before speaking. “You ever have a friend who almost never speaks? But then every once in a while, she slips in the perfect word at the perfect time, and it’s the only thing you remember? That was Three Whispers.

“She was our wiry, flickering shadow, with hair like crow’s feathers. Preferred close up work. That was her name, for her three knives and the sound of air from a punctured lung.” Verse rubs the pads of her fingers against her lips. “It’s hard to remember stories about her, because she never drew attention…”

Ryolde knows Verse well enough at this point to know there’s more to this. “And yet…?”

Verse grins widely. “Her old favorite… that I remember. She’d trick a solider into gutting his own comrade, then open his throat while he was still in shock. Beautiful move, and I saw her dance it a dozen times.” Verse’s hand moves from her lips to the line of feathers that adornes her head. “Whispers knew her histories and letters, knew borders and houses and heraldry. Even knew a few sigils, and kept us from bleeding out more than once.” Her smile falls into something smaller, more wistful. “Whispers and me, we were more than sisters sometimes. Not often. And nothing holding. But yeah. She read a body as easy as a scroll.”

Ryolde forcibly keeps herself from thinking of her own dalliances over the years.  “Sounds nice.”

Verse’s voice is a soft as Ryolde has ever heard it. “Was nice.”

Ryolde casts her eyes at the farmstead around them. “That was some uncharacteristic hesitation on your part.”

“I didn’t realize you knew me so well as to say what is and isn’t like me.” Ryolde raises an eyebrow at her, but Verse just smirks and shakes her head. “I enjoy killing, Fatebinder. Doesn’t mean I think everyone deserves to die.”

That’s… a good way to put it, Ryolde thinks.

She’s sure the smile on her face is far softer than it has any right to be. “Come on, Verse. Let’s go.”

“Let’s.” As they depart, Verse takes a bite out of the tomato she still clutches, the juices running red down her chin.

Chapter Text

The next time Bleden Mark sees Tauni Ryolde is when she returns to Court on Tunon’s orders following the ending of the Edict of Fire. There’s something different about her now; as she passes by, he can smell charred ashes and crisped parchment, though it’s been at least a fist since she was in the Library itself. Like she said, it’s as if the power of the Edict is now contained inside her, he thinks, following her with his eyes as she strides into Court. Already, he can see some of tension leaving her carriage, as the familiar surroundings pull the stress from her bones.

Once she stands before the dais, she acknowledges Tunon with the a short bow.

“You return as summoned, despite the weight of responsibility on your shoulders. The Court appreciates your devotion to our good work.” Were the old man capable of such a thing, Mark’s certain that he would be smiling right now. Ryolde has always been a dutiful little Fatebinder, hasn’t she, so why would the Adjudicator not be pleased by the little wisp?

“It should come as no surprise that your activities are closely monitored. As an extension of Kyros’ Law in the frontier, your progress is a topic of some interest.” Yes, as if her work as a Fatebinder is what is drawing the eyes of the Court, and not the way she seems to be able to manipulate Edicts with impunity. “I sent you on a mission to bring order to the chaos of this civil war. Not enough time has passed for me to expect any significant progress, but I am curious about your findings all the same. I want to make sure your time outside of the Court’s shadow is being used effectively.”

Well, time outside of the Court’s shadow may be a bit of a stretch.

“I understand that you’ve made a name for yourself in the ranks of the Disfavored. Good – with the confidence of his soldiers, you should have no trouble rooting out corruption or chaos in Graven Ashe’s elite legion.”

Ryolde nods, once more. “I am happy to be an asset to Kyros’ Forces, and to pull chaos out by the root.” The platitudes slip through her lips effortlessly. The years at Court have taught her the value of well-placed displays of loyalty.

Who knows? She may even mean it.

However earnest (or not) Ryolde may be, Tunon seems to be pleased. “That is all this Court has ever demanded of you. You do well to remember your duties with such exacting precision.”

From where he watches through the shadows of her metal bodyguard’s armor, Mark can see Ryolde tense at the Adjudicator’s words. That is far from all this Court has ever demanded of her, he can almost hear her thinking, but she is far too clever to give voice to such things.

“You have spent time on your own recognizance. The efforts of our military and the challenges they face should be no mystery to you.” If Mark didn’t know better, he’d say there’s a glimmer of eagerness behind the gaping black pits that make up Tunon’s eyes. “Tell me… are you any closer to determining which of the Archons is at fault for the troubles of the campaign?”

Ryolde takes a deep breath and nods. “Yes, your honor. I have reason to believe the Voices of Nerat to have been… to have been disloyal.”

Before she has even finished speaking, many things happen, all at once.

Where he stands to the right of the dais, the Scarlet Chorus representative surges forward. “You lying bitch!” he spits, brandishing a dagger. On the other side of the platform, iron hisses against leather as the Disfavored contingency draw their own blades, stepping forward as if to defend the honor of one of their own. Without a sound, Calio’s knives drop into her hands, while Nunoval makes to reach for the ax on his back. Next to them, Rhogulas’ eyes narrow dangerously. He doesn’t draw any sigils, but his fingers begin to glow all the same. From where he watches in the shadows, Mark doesn’t reach for his blades; there’s no point, not yet, but even he feels tension tighten his shoulders.

In the center of all this chaos, Ryolde remains perfectly, completely still. She doesn’t make any effort to reach for any weapons, only holding up a hand to keep her companions from doing the same. She doesn’t even spare the Chorus member a glance; she keeps her eyes fixed on Tunon, as if all of the turmoil around her is nothing more than the stiff breeze that follows so closely behind her.

Tunon takes this disquiet about as well as he does anything resembling disorder. He bangs his gavel onto the ground, sending the echoes ringing throughout the courtroom, and everyone before him freezes.

“Enough!” he bellows. “The Fatebinder is giving testimony, and I will have order in this Court! If there is any dishonesty in her statements, that will be addressed in time. Now, remove your blades, or I will have Bleden Mark remove your hands.”

There’s a clatter of iron and bronze as all those in the Court hurry to sheath their weapons. On the platform in front of Ryolde, Calio offers her a wink as her own daggers disappear back into her sleeves.

Once all is silent once more, the Adjudicator turns back to Ryolde. “That is a serious accusation. I trust this claim is well-founded?”

Ryolde nods once more. “Of course, your honor. In Lethian’s Crossing, I discovered that Harchiand Bronze smuggled iron to the Vendrien Guard,” a pause, as if for dramatic effect, “on the orders of the Voices of Nerat.”

Mark watches eagerly as the discovery spreads across Tunon’s “face.” He can see the Adjudicator’s eyes slide together, as if in anger. Or maybe in surprise.

Finally he nods. “Material evidence is hallowed to the Court. I respect your diligence in having collected it, Fatebinder. You bring hope to my ambitions of bringing order to this divisive campaign. Be sure that you remember this, and any other evidence you identify, when you are called upon to present your findings in a more formal manner. I look forward to receiving your full report. I will summon you again at the appropriate time.” There is a pause. “If there’s nothing further, you’re dismissed.”

Ryolde bows deeply once more. “Yes, Archon. Farewell.”

Then she turns and strides out of Court, leaving the Scarlet Chorus and the Disfavored to their squabbling behind her.

Mark next catches up with Ryolde on the edges of the Stone Sea, where she is due to meet up with Ashe’s precious Earthshakers.

Once again, however, the Disfavored are shown to be absolutely shit at doing their jobs.

Really, where would they be without Ryolde, showing up out of the blue and providing a solution to all of their problems?

In Halfgate, this solution is shown to be the mass slaughter of the Scarlet Chorus stationed there, which is always good fun, though Mark supposes that Tunon is unlikely to share that perspective. Speaking of Halfgate, he really should come here more often. He’s been meaning to pay Haygren a visit.

In Stone Down Gorge, Mark watches as Ryolde does her best to avoid further bloodshed of the beastmen, though he isn’t quite sure why. Maybe she’s gotten attached to them because of that beastwoman he’s occasionally seen her travelling with, or maybe she just doesn’t want to get blood on her nice new leathers. Whatever the reason, it all goes to shit rather quickly, even for her. Ryolde and her companions end up being forced to cut their way through the beastman, but when all is said and done, the Disfavored in the gorge are left standing and the beastmen are not. After she’s done the courtesy of clearing the way for them, the Stone Shield and the Earthshaker lead her to the Disfavored camp in the shadow of the Dawning Spire, where Cairn lies half-buried in the earth.

When they tell her of Cairn’s continued survival, for a moment, Mark is so angry he could spit. First Kyros decrees him incapable of claiming the rebellious Archon’s head, and then, when she proclaims an Edict to do so instead, even she can’t manage to get this right? Once the anger passes, however, he has to acknowledge the degree of respect he has for the Archon of Stone. Even in Mark’s many centuries, there have not been many that have shown themselves to be as difficult to slay as the man of the mountains.

The Earthshakers lay out their plan to blight the lands of Azure with the last vestiges of Cairn’s vitality, and Mark feels a kind of vicious glee that all Cairn’s desperation to cling to life has done is give the Earthshakers a means to destroy the lands he once held so dear. He can see Ryolde’s discomfort with the idea in the way she casts her gaze over Cairn while chewing on the inside of her lips, but at the end of it, all she can do is argue that they should obtain Graven Ashe’s approval first.

The Archon of War gives them the go-ahead to complete the ritual, and that is that.

Radix’s staff pounds into the dirt, leaving the echoes to ring in Ryolde’s ears. “Let the land hear our cries,” he intones. “Let the land shudder and tremble. Let the land swallow Cairn’s legacy and choke on the power, forevermore.” All around Cairn’s remains, Earthshakers gather, chanting lowly. “Archon of Stone, we gathered beseech you – we who believe. Let us now fallow this land as is fitting for your grave dirt.”

Earthshakers crowd onto the ledges that surround Cairn’s body, and as they chant, the stone on Cairn’s forehead begins to glow.

Suddenly, over the chanting, Ryolde hears the pounding of boots on the dirt. Turning, she sees an Earthshaker run up to them. “Sir, the Scarlet Chorus are upon us! They’ve breached the perimeter!”

Shit, Ryolde thinks.

“Oh, for Graven’s Glory.” Next to her, Radix looks more exasperated than concerned. He rubs a hand along his visor. “Rouse the guild and defend the compound. Do not allow the Scarlet Chorus to interrupt the ritual, no matter the cost. Understood? Caedis?”

The officer nods. “Me and my Shields are on it.” Eagerly drawing his sword, he rushes past Ryolde, already shouting at his men.

With his brother gone, Radix turns his hard eyes to Ryolde. “Fatebinder, we need you as well.” Of course you do. “If the Chorus defeats us here, the Disfavored’s odds in this war are all but doomed. Do not let them halt the ritual.”

There’s no time for smart remarks. Ryolde nods with a jerk of her chin. “What do you need me to do?”

“Do not let them shatter the Azurelith lodes. If they dislodge one of the focal staves, it’s imperative that you re-embed it into the ground immediately, else the charge – and therefore the entire ritual – could become unstable.”

Gesturing to her companions, Ryolde takes off across the bridge to the next platform, where the Scarlet Chorus have already gathered around the broken node. As she runs, she slings her bow off of her back. The Chorus members themselves aren’t that hard to cut down, though there is one Scarlet Fury that apparently wants to make things difficult. Nonetheless, they quickly fall as Verse and Ryolde fill them up like pincushions. Once the Scarlet Chorus are gone from the platform, all that remains is to correct the Azurelith staff. Ryolde has no idea if she’s doing this properly – this whole ritual seems unnecessarily finicky and most of the magic is technical enough, and specific enough, to go right over her head – but she jams the stick into the ground anyway.

It apparently works, too, because the Azurelith affixed to the pole begins to glow with the same purple light as Cairn, and even Ryolde can see the torrent of arcane energy that connects the two foci.

Well, one down, two to go.

Once the staff is firmly embedded in the ground, all four of them immediately take off across the bridge to the next platform, where the crackle of fire sigils is mixing with the growls of beastmen. Sure enough, when Ryolde focuses down the arrow notched in her bow, she can see a couple of beastmen and a blood chanter accompanied by a few members of the Horde.

Yeah, she’s not about to get in range of those claws.

Instead, she pulls about a half-dozen arrows from her quiver, notching them and sending them flying across the battlefield. One buries itself in the side of one of beastmen, who whimpers, and another grazes the blood chanter’s ear. He curses, and spins around to take aim at her, but Barik jams the pommel of his sword into the mage’s back, successfully taunting him into turning back around. A few feet away, Verse laughs as she dances toe to toe with the other beastman. Drawn in by the clang of his sword banging against his shield, the horde begin to cluster around Barik, and Ryolde grins as she reaches for another arrow. The head of this arrow is heavier than most, weighted down by the explosives bound to its end. Ryolde narrows her eyes at the blood chanter, takes a deep breath, and lets the arrow go.

Let’s see how he likes being the one on fire.

The arrow finds its mark, hitting not the blood chanter himself, but instead lodging itself in the knotted cloth of his shoulder piece. It sticks there for a second.

“Barik, shield up!”

He pulls his shield up to his eyes just in time.

The blood chanter has barely even looked down at the arrow before it explodes.

His shriek cuts off with a gurgle as the front of his cheat bursts, sending viscera and bits of flaming cloth in all directions. Some bounce off of Barik’s shield with a splat, but a few fly onto the horde clustered around him, carrying the fire with them. One piece, in particular, lands in the fur of the beastman who was next to the blood chanter, setting it ablaze. The air becomes thick with the scent of burning meat.

After the blood chanter and his beastmen have been dealt with, the rest of the Scarlet Chorus members are easy pickings. Ryolde lines up her next shot, sending an arrow through the head of one Chorus man and into the neck of another. (The trick is to get the first one in the temples, where the skull is the thinnest, and to make sure that the man behind him is taller. It can be tricky, but damn is it fun when she gets it right.) The Earthshakers, along with Barik and Verse, take care of the rest of them.

Once the last Horde is dead, Ryolde gestures to the Azurelith staff, which lies askew in the dirt, and Barik jams it back in place. It begins to glow, just like the first one, and magical energy arcs out of it in the direction of Carin’s remains.

Ryolde’s boot has just hit the wood of the bridge when their mistake becomes clear: in their haste to get to the eastern node, they’ve left a clear path to where Radix and his Earthshakers are gathered around Cairn. Ryolde curses under her breath as she sees a Blood Chanter and at least two Scarlet Furies thunder down the bridge that leads to Cairn.

Let’s hope that Caedis is as good as he says he is, she thinks as she runs.

A small gang of Chorus men await them on the central platform, probably left there with the express orders to keep any reinforcements from getting through, but tough shit for them, because if Nerat really wanted to keep a Fatebinder out, he should have sent more men.

Ryolde nocks another explosive arrow, sending into the gang and barely waiting to see it go off before drawing her knives.

Their armor, made of threadbare scraps and held together with a motely mix of leather and rope, is nothing before Ryolde’s blades, and she slices through them like butter. The last Horde has barely hit the ground before they move on.

On the ledge before the entrance to the Dawning Spire, Caedis and his Stone Shields stand firm as their namesake before the Chorus onslaught. Still, for all their strength, one of their number has already fallen, forcing Radix to break away from the ritual and turn his attention to the invaders instead. He now stands a half-dozen paces behind his brother, stone swirling around him, hurling chunks of earth at the oncoming Scarlet Chorus.

Barik bangs the Dauntless against his shield, drawing the ire of the Scarlet Furies away from Caedis’ beleaguered forces. Feeling the familiar weight of her knives in her palms, Ryolde darts around him, taking advantage of the distraction he provides to stick her daggers into armpits and between ribs. These are no mere Horde; these are clearly the Chorus’ elite, and their armor reflects that. It’s much harder for Ryolde to find gaps between which to slide her daggers. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Radix run closer to the fight and lift his staff up, likely in preparation for some kind of spell.

She takes the hint.

She pulls her bow off of her back before she jumps, planting her boot on the shoulder of the Scarlet Fury in front of her and sending her stumbling forward into Verse’s blade. Pushing off of the nice little platform the Fury has been kind enough to offer her, she flips up and around, bringing another explosive arrow to her bow as she does. Her feet hit the ground again with a smack, her bow already notched, ready, and brought up to her eye. She lets the arrow go just as Radix brings his staff to the earth with a thud.

Stone spikes erupt under the Chorus members, and when Ryolde’s arrow goes off, they have nowhere to go to escape the flames. With fire on one side and hard stone on the other, the Scarlet Chorus quickly fall, sending their screams in the air to echo against the rocks. By the time the spikes retreat back into the earth, there’s only one Chorus man still standing.

Caedis removes his head from his shoulders with one swift slice of his great sword.

The man’s body hasn’t even hit the ground before Radix turns around and rushes back to the ritual, Caedis following quickly behind him.

Ryolde would sigh, but the Earthshaker was helpful in taking care of the last Chorus attack, and it isn’t as if pushing these sticks back into the ground is that much trouble.

She gestures Verse to pick over the bodies as she jams the last Azurelith lode back into place.

With the last part of the ritual now secure, the whole platform begins shaking. Ryolde looks up to meet Verse’s gaze before they all run to where Radix now stands overlooking the chanting Earthshakers. The rumbling and shaking continues to grow in strength, until, all at once, the light at the center of Cairn’s forehead goes out, sending a shockwave of dust hurtling across the canyon. Ryolde barely has time to survey the carnage before she feels the now familiar rush of energy over take her, lifting her from the ground and blinding her in the process.

She’s learned that every Edict has its own distinct feel. The Edict of Storms felt chaotic, and uncontrollable, like a whirlwind stuffed into a bottle, one crack away from devastation. The Edict of Fire, on the other hand, felt angrier, more pointed, like an army that marches to its goal, leaving nothing but dust in its wake. The Edict of Stone tastes like poison. Like patience. It feels like a slow rot, like the inevitability of death, secure in the knowledge that it will triumph eventually. It burns in her stomach more than the Edict of Fire ever did.

Even after her feet are firmly planted on the ground, Ryolde has to take a minute to swallow, if only to be certain that she doesn’t throw up.

Somewhere, distantly, she can tell that her companions are talking, but she has no chance of making out what they’re saying over the roaring in her ears. As soon as the spots behind her eyelids clear, she turns around, half desperately, to see what their ritual has wrought.

All around her, the land of the Stone Sea is grey, as if all the color has been wrung out of it. Beneath her feet, the ground feels brittle, cracked, as if one wrong move is all it would take for it to crumble away. What few bits of shrubbery and hard grass still remained following the Edict of Stone are now cracked, dry, and dead.

She can hear Verse, dimly, somewhere in the back of her ears. “…resolved the Edict, but at what cost? The land is blighted. Nothing will grow here again…”

Ryolde swallows again. There’s some kind of knot in her throat, thick and dry as sand. Verse’s voice fades away, back into nothingness, and all she is left with is her thoughts, pounding in her head like a heartbeat.

What in the name of Kyros have I done?

And, perhaps more importantly:

What have I done in the name of Kyros?

Mark doesn’t watch the Ritual of Fallowing, as much as he’d like to see Cairn’s final end, but he does arrive in time to see Ryolde’s response. He watches as she casts her eyes at the devastation around her, how the color drains from her face in the same way it drained from the land once known as Azure. He sees the way the Edict of Stone envelopes her, damn near swallows her whole, so completely that he almost feels their bond dissolve in the face of that dry desolation. When it’s over and the bond settles back into place, he can feel how she bites the inside of her mouth until it bleeds, as if to hold against the bile rising in her throat.

Her face is starkly pale, her eyes green and huge against her white cheeks, as empty as he’s ever seen them.

He doesn’t stay much longer after that. She’s in no condition to do anything meaningful anyway, and so he leaves her to her grief.

Afterwards, even he feels at ends, at a loss of what to do with himself, as if her own listlessness has seeped through the soulbond to infect him, as well. With every Edict she unravels, Ryolde becomes more powerful, and it’s beginning to feel as if she is boulder that someone pushed down a mountain long ago, that’s now moving too quickly to be stopped. He remembers the Overlord’s words:

Observe her, and, if she should become a threat to my rule, eliminate her.

Does she even know the knife’s edge she now dances on? Does she even understand the magnitude of the forces she now toys with? This gift of hers is getting dangerously close to spinning out of control. When he first saw that sigil on his wrist, he never dreamed of a soulmate with such power.

Then he recalls:

My dear blade, I trust you will remember to act in the best interests of the Empire.

So yeah, this once he doesn’t immediately bring the news to Tunon, because, just maybe, fuck what the Overlord wants, and because this is quickly growing into a mess that goes far beyond his purview as Archon of Shadows.

Or, maybe, it’s exactly in his purview.

Maybe that’s the problem.

If he spends that day at Court being a bit quieter and a bit broodier than usual, well, it’s not like anyone is going to notice (other than perhaps Calio, but she notices everything). 

It’s only at the end of the day, when Tunon has sent all of the many petitioners that crowd the courtroom home for the evening, that Mark decides that checking on Djin is probably a good idea.

The house, however, is already quiet when he gets there. As he stalks the rooms, he allows his hands to tense, just a little, keeping them ready to slide his blades out at a moment’s notice. Then he cracks open the door to Djin’s bedroom, and relaxes. Ryolde’s back is a lean curve in the dim light of the room. She lies on her side, her head angled towards the wall, with Djin sprawled on top of her. Ryolde’s head rests on Djin’s pillow, while Djin’s face is pressed into Ryolde’s sternum. One of Ryolde’s arms has slipped under Djin’s neck and rests on her back. The other bends around her slight form to clasp her hip.

Both of them are sound asleep.

As he steps into the room, Mark takes care to keep his footsteps silent, but Ryolde’s shoulder twitches anyway. Her hair spreads out along the pillow as she turns towards him, eyes open blearily.

Mark thinks back to all those nights he woke her up with a blade pressed to her throat or to her thigh or to a slot between ribs, how she would leap into action before she was even fully aware of what she was doing. She blinks a couple of times. The haze doesn’t leave her gaze, and Mark is struck by the notion that she looks as guileless as he has ever seen her.

Even after Djin was born, she could still find it in her to at least muster some kind of response.

He can see her hand belatedly slide to her waist, where one of her blades is no doubt waiting. “Ma- Archon?”

He shakes his head. “Just go back to sleep, wisp.”

She doesn’t argue. She just tucks her head more firmly into Djin’s hair.

Djin responds to her mother’s movement by tensing around her and pulling her closer. She doesn’t open her eyes, but a crease, too fine to be called a frown, forms between her eyebrows. Somewhere, deep in his chest and far beneath his ribcage, the heart Mark didn’t even think he had thuds.

He should never have let her love her so much.

Within the fist, the Voices of Nerat marshals his forces against the Mountain Spire, and Tauni Ryolde responds by proclaiming an Edict of her very own, independent of Kryos’ aid or interference, and everything, everything, changes.

For the first few days after she proclaims her own Edict (how is that a sentence she actually has a reason to think? And what kind of sad implications does that have for her – likely short – future?), Ryolde and her companions remain at the Mountain Spire. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she dimly thinks that she should probably go check in with Graven Ashe – surely he’s heard the news – or maybe consult with Tunon on this new… development – yeah, let’s just call it that – but neither course of action feels at all appropriate to the gaping hole she’s ripped in her own understanding of the world. All of a sudden, the horizon around her Spire feels incredibly open and impossibly vast and full of too many previously-thought-to-be-unthinkable possibilities to count.

So she sticks to the Spires, to the places that have inexplicitly come to be a kind of home in the Tiers over the course of this conquest. She spends most of that time in the library, with Lantry, perusing the Silent Archive and pouring over any kind of text she can get her hands on, trying to figure out what in the name of the Overlord the precedent is for this. She also checks on the Forge at the Sunset Spire, whiling away the hours ensuring that all her people have the best weapons and armor possible. She has a feeling they’re going to need it, sooner rather than later.

She avoids the infirmary at the Dawning Spire. She doesn’t want to see the green against all the gray.

Calio shows up at the Mountain Spire almost a Fist after Ryolde proclaims her Edict, by which point the storms have subsided to a mild drizzle. Ryolde doesn’t bother asking how Calio got up the Spire, to say nothing of how she did so without any warning. Ryolde has found that, at least where Calio is concerned, it’s better not to ask.

The Fatebinder of Balance wears a familiar wry grin. “I keep hearing about this little Spire you’ve been calling your own.” She tilts her head towards the edge of the platform, offering the drop nothing more than a cursory glance, and Ryolde is struck by how easy it would be to push her over. One shove, and whatever the Court wants from her is gone. Ryolde meets Calio’s gaze again, and the banked warmth she finds there is enough to completely dispel the notion from her mind. Whatever has happened, the Court is not her enemy. They are her family. “Now that you’ve slaughtered those who would take your lands, I think your claim is as official as it gets.”

Ryolde tries not to raise an eyebrow. Really, she wants to say, but doesn’t. Who knew that was all it took? I’m amazed more people don’t have their own little fiefdoms. She could trade witticisms with Calio all day, but right now, they have more important things to be doing with their time. She lets her smile give her welcome for her. “What did I do to earn the visit of a Fatebinder?” she asks, as if it isn’t obvious. She thinks of the terrifying notion that has eaten away at her sleep over the last fist and feels dread pool in her stomach. “Do you have an Edict to proclaim against me?”

Calio’s smile doesn’t slip. “A fair guess. I was expecting Tunon to hand me a scroll with Kyros’ seal on it.” She laughs, lightly, in that way Calio always has, as if everything in the world is a joke meant solely for her. “After what you just pulled, I would have wagered my last ring that Kyros would cast a very selective Edict against you… but alas, the Overlord has other plans in mind.”

For a moment, Ryolde allows herself to consider if such an Edict would be possible. How specific would the wording have to be? Could the power of an Edict really be focused on such an exact target? What would the likelihood be of some kind of collateral damage occurring?

Over the last fist, she’s spent more time thinking about Edicts than she’d really care to admit.

Calio allows her gaze to slide up, perusing the dewy sky. “No one’s quite sure what to make of you these days, Ryolde. They all say you proclaimed an Edict of Storms – not a proclamation of an Edict of Kyros… but your own Edict of Storms, your own mystical tempest.”

Lantry likely can’t help himself from regurgitating the results a fist’s worth of research. “You’re no more Fatebinder, of that much we can be certain. You’ve proclaimed and broken the Overlord’s Edicts, one too many times, perhaps?” 

Really? Ryolde thinks. Can we truly be certain of that? Because a Fatebinder is all I’ve ever wanted to be. In the next second, she shakes off the thought like water off of a dog. What about her life has led her to believe that it is at all concerned with what she wants?

“If I had known that you could do this when I first met you, I’d…” At the sound of Eb’s voice, Ryolde turns to look at the Tidecaster. Her lips are twisted into an apologetic grimace. “I’d maybe have tried in earnest to kill you? I hope for the sake of Terratus that the right person has inherited this gift.”

Thanks for the vote of confidence, Eb.

Metal groans as Barik crosses his arms, having apparently decided to add his own opinion to this little forum. “I don’t know what to make of you, Fatebinder. Proclaiming and breaking the Overlord’s magic, claiming these awful towers… it should come as no surprise that an Edict is within your grasp, but I still find room for surprise.”

Well, personally, Ryolde thinks it’s quite a leap, to go from proclaiming and breaking the Overlord’s Edicts to proclaiming one of her own accord, but to each their own.

And for what it’s worth, she likes the Spires.

To his right, Verse nods, crossing her own arms in a stance that’s not too dissimilar from her brother’s. “As much as I hate to admit it, the scrap heap’s right. You’re powerful in a way gang bosses and mages aren’t. You commanded this… this place to do your bidding, and unleashed something terrible on the world. That isn’t the work of a Fatebinder. If anything, it’s the work of an Archon.”

At the word, Ryolde has to tense her face to keep her eyes from going wide. She thinks back to the last missive Mythosis sent her, how the old Fatebinder had primly addressed it to one “Archon Ryolde,” explaining that she was “proud to consider herself ahead of the trends.”

Kyros’ bleeding fist, Ryolde thinks. The old loon might have been right.

Motherfucking shit.

Ryolde is pulled out of her… deteriorating mental state by the feeling of spittle hitting her cheeks as Kills-in-Shadow huffs proudly. “Beastwoman will follow Alpha from here to ends of Tiers-land and further still. Will paw-paw-prowl deep into cold North, hunting armies of Kyros at Alpha’s side. Together, Shadowhunter and Alpha will slaughter whole of Prima’s tribe.”

For a moment, Ryolde wants to tell the Beastwoman to slow down, to remind her that it’s a bit early to be thinking of supplanting Kyros, but she thinks better of it. Still. One Edict does not an Overlord make.

A stray bit of sunlight flashes against Sirin’s helm as she looks up. “I don’t have any idea how you’re able to do this, but it isn’t a power that any scholar can wield. This is something else. You’re not some ambitious hedge-mage, who learned it out of a book. You’re more like an Archon, where it just comes naturally.”

Ryolde would like to point out that for all her interest in scholarly pursuits, sigils have never been forte, but then she thinks for a moment and realizes that they’ve gone well beyond such things.

And yet.

If this power is the power of an Archon, shouldn’t there be a sigil for it? Are the sigils for such magic somehow connected to the wording of a paper Edict? Things to pursue later, she supposes.

If there is a later for any of them.

Listening to Ryolde’s companions all offer their own opinions on the state of affairs they now find themselves in, Calio’s grin grows wider. She shakes her in an almost bemused fashion. “I always knew you’d be a delightful bit of trouble, but I didn’t think you had a touch of the Overlord’s power in you… why didn’t you tell me?”

All of the oxygen surges out of Ryolde’s lungs in something resembling a laugh. “You presume I had the slightest inkling of what I was doing.”

“You didn’t know if it would work and you decided to play with the arcane equivalent of a mountain tipping over?” Ryolde can practically hear the raised eyebrow in Sirin’s voice. “My confidence in you swells, Fatebinder.”

Lantry, bless his heart, is quick to leap to Ryolde’s defense. “It’s only natural to have doubted yourself. The Edicts have always been the magic of Kyros and Kyros alone! Anyone claiming to be able to cast an Edict would be presumed crazy. And yet, a sane man watching what you did would have seen the power of the Overlord in your voice.”

Calio narrows her kohl-lined eyes at Ryolde, who rolls her own in response. “Come now, Calio, you know practically everything about me. If I’d known, you don’t think I would have told you?”

Calio’s narrowed gaze scans Ryolde from head to toe. “Hm…” Her eyes relax again, just a bit. “I suppose you’ve no reason to play the fool. I’ll say that however it is you came into this power, know that you’ve drawn the attention of the Overlord.” She smiles, once again jovial. “So… congratulations. I think?”

Ryolde tries to smile, but she isn’t sure it works. “Thanks. I think.”

Calio bows with an exaggerated flourish. “You’re welcome.” Standing again, she straightens her shoulders. “Anyway, I come bringing orders from the Overlord.” Her voice hardens to match her now serious posture. “Kyros has decreed two things. First, the Overlord has commanded that one and only one Archon is fit to rule the Tiers. To that end, the Archons are to settle through death or dominance who is the one Archon fit to inherit the Tiers.”

Ryolde feels her blood freeze and her insides jolt in a sudden swooping manner. “Wait, what? Loyal subjects of Kyros don’t turn on each other! This is how this madness started, with the Archons falling into disorder!”

Calio raises an eyebrow. “Then consider this Kyros’ sense of humor, maybe?” Oh, yes, Ryolde thinks, just completely throw out the basis of your legal system for a lark! It’ll be hilarious! Calio shrugs. “I can’t speak to why it has to be this way, but I would wager the Overlord figures maybe it’s easier to let you all choke on your own infighting than to try to get you all to obey.”

Calio’s repeated use of “you all” is starting to make Ryolde very nervous.

“And of course, if you consider yourself a loyal subject of Kyros, you’re going to have to throw your weight around. Because I have more news.”

Ryolde can see what’s coming, distantly, somewhere in the pit of her gut, and it’s like watching someone fall from some great height, in the last moments before they hit the ground. When it’s far too late to save them.

“Kyros has decreed you are the newest Archon.” Calio bows, probably more to hide her grin than anything else, but Ryolde’s certain her own face has gone white as a sheet. Sure enough, when she straightens again, Calio’s face bears a smile so wide Ryolde fears it might crack. “So the other Archons now have orders to control or destroy you, or the other way around.” Above her  gleaming teeth, Calio arches a smug eyebrow. “See? This is why I try to avoid getting Kyros’ attention.”

Ryolde’s head is spinning as she tries to keep everything in it straight. “So, just to be clear, this is a command from Kyros but not an Edict?”

Calio nods. “Correct. There’s no Edict backing this order.” She shrugs, tilting her head slightly. “Such encouragement hardly seems necessary when the task is its own reward. The Overlord has merely rescinded Kyros’ Peace – the Archons may kill and maim each other without breaking any laws.”

Ryolde squeezes her eyes shut, sure her face looks as if she just swallowed something sour. Rescinding Kyros’ Peace? Is that even possible? What does this mean for the civil war up until now? Is this someone retroactive? Does it just apply to the Archons? Surely not, as one would be hard-pressed to make it either Ashe or Nerat without slaughtering their way through their respective armies, but does that mean that all murder is now alright, or only if one can argue they were acting towards the end of one Archon or another?

Shadows take them all, but she does not pity Tunon, or envy the task ahead of him.

Cailo ignores the twist of Ryolde’s lips. “Kyros knows, rightfully so, that enmities new and old will drive the Archons to mutual destruction. The Overlord need only remove the pretense of peace and watch the ensuing violence.” Calio grins, her eyes full of dark humor. “Would you have preferred another ‘do or die’ Edict?”

Yes, Ryolde thinks, if only because it’s less work later.

Speaking of the legal implications… “What of the Court? How are they responding to this?”

Calio’s grin grows. “As per usual, Tunon has the emotional range of pumice, but Bleden Mark seemed almost giddy – I think the old shadow is already putting names on his daggers. I was wondering if he’d hear this order and promptly stab Tunon, but no… it would seem the Archon of Shadows is happy to serve. It makes sense; I’ve never seen the old shadow to crave that kind of power.”

Something deep in Ryolde’s stomach turns to ice. In all her consternation over Kyros’ Laws, she completely forgot about Mark. Damn. Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Damn.

She forces herself to pull her lips into a sardonic smile. “Oh, no, I can tell you how Tunon reacted to this. He’s banging his head against a wall somewhere, trying to figure out how to deal with the legal precedent this sets.” Ryolde shakes her head, some of her own anger returning. “Does Kyros have any idea how difficult this is going to be to reconcile with the rest of the legal canon?”

Calio’s face is flat, but there’s a flicker of laughter in her dark eyes. “Quite frankly, I don’t think the Overlord cares.”

Ryolde breathes in very deeply through her nose. “Well, that’s all well and good for her, but she’s not the one who will spend spans bent over parchment after this is all over, trying to create a coherent judicial record!”

At this, Calio’s indifferent mask cracks, and she laughs fondly. “I hate to break it to you, Ryolde, but it won’t be you, either. You’re an Archon now, remember? You’re above that sort of thing.”

Everything in Ryolde freezes.

But… but I… I don’t want to be, Ryolde thinks, quietly, pathetically, in the dim recess of her mind. Yes, dealing with that disaster would be a pain in the ass, but it would be less of a pain than dealing with the mess she’s stuck in right now, and it would sure as the Void be a more familiar ache.

And then there’s Mark. What is she going to do about him?

I could kill him, a small voice suggests, and for a moment Ryolde lets herself consider the idea. Oh, it’s half-mad, most likely, but all the same. Djin would be all mine, then.

Ryolde shakes her head, forcibly pushing the idea out of her mind.

She has enough on her plate with the Archons of War and Secrets without adding Shadows to the mix. One Archon at a time.

As if she can sense the direction Ryolde’s thoughts have taken, Calio’s voice grows somber. “You’ll have to deal with them too, and I fear greatly for how that will turn out. I imagine Tunon is too loyal to bow to you, and Bleden Mark too proud to accept you as his better.” There is a moment of silence before Calio nods, quietly. “There is no way this ends well for some of us.”

No, Ryolde thinks. I suppose it won’t.

They discuss the matter a bit further, including what, precisely, Ryolde is an Archon of – nothing, as it turns out, though Calio suggests the title of “Archon of the Tiers,” and mentions that others have been bandying about “Archon of Edicts,” as if that weren’t the biggest affront to Kyros’ name since the Overpig – as well as how all this is going to affect her alliance with Graven Ashe – probably not positively, is the general consensus, though that’s about as helpful as a candle in a blizzard – and, finally, what on Terratus Kyros hopes to accomplish with this twisted commandment. As for that last one, the best Calio can come up with is that Kyros isn’t exactly known for her caring or compassion and so there isn’t really a reason for her not to throw the Archons to the refuge heap once she’s through with them.

Wonderful, Ryolde thinks. All this upward mobility and all you get is to be a slightly larger piece on the Overlord’s chess board.

Once the general discussion is done, Ryolde nods and squares her shoulders, trying to look at least a little bit like she knows what she’s doing. “Thank you for delivering the message. That will be all.”

Calio takes in her new conviction with a strange combination of smugness and pride. “First step is deciding you won’t bow to one of the other Archons. I wish you the best of luck in your upcoming struggle. Know that when you come for Tunon and Bleden Mark, the other Fatebinders and I won’t interfere.” She’s looks as if she’s about to leave before she turns back around. “Actually, there is one more thing, a question me and the other Fatebinders have been asking… can you do this again? Nunoval believes in you, another who shall remain nameless takes the more cynical stance that the Overlord has a hand ‘so far up your ass she could puppet your mouth’ and you couldn’t cast another Edict if you tried.” A grin unfurls across Calio’s face like a flag. “Me? I think you have it in you. Or I at least like the idea of proclaiming an Edict of yours someday.”

The idea drops like a seed into the roots already tangled in Ryolde’s mind, and she offers Calio a grin of her own. “Now that you mention it… curiosity demands we try having you proclaim an Edict of mine.”

Calio’s eyes go wide, as if shocked Ryolde actually said yes. Her words, when they come, are muffled by the hand she holds over her mouth. “Are you… are you serious? You’d let me do that?”

Ryolde nods. “Sure. What’s the worst that can happen to us?”

“Why do I get the feeling those same words have been spoken aloud before all sorts of terrible mistakes?”

Oh, hush, Ryolde thinks. She turns to Lantry. “Take a diction, please.”

Before she’s even finished speaking, the Sage already has a quill in hand, its tip gleaming with the brightest red ink Ryolde’s ever seen. “You meant to say ‘Lantry, please record my second Edict for all time and memory,’ right? Gladly!”

The target of this next Edict is obvious. Ryolde feels her canines bite into the inside of her lips as she dictates a new Edict of Storms against the Stone Sea, and especially against the Scarlet Chorus in Cacophony. Once the Edict is complete, Lantry hands the scroll off to Calio, who turns to the edge of the Spire. She holds the parchment firmly against the lingering winds. When she speaks, her voice is sonorous and deep, as if she wants to fill all of Vendrien’s Well with the sound of Ryolde’s Edict.

For a moment after the last echoes of her voice fade into silence, the air is rife with anticipation, and it seems like all those at the Mountain Spire are holding their breath.

One second, then two…

Nothing happens. The Spire is silent save for the fluttering of Calio’s parchment in the wind. Her shoulders drop, and Ryolde is almost sure she hears a whimper escape the esteemed Fatebinder of Balance.

Ryolde purses her lips, bringing a finger to her face to rub against the skin under her nose. “Hm… it works when Kyros writes it down. There must be some trick to it that I haven’t figured out yet.”

Calio spins around, her finger in the air. “But your power most certainly worked when you used your own voice! So we at least know that your voice is an essential part of invoking your powers. Or at least, so far. I would imagine Kyros spoke a great number of Edicts before learning how to write them down for others to proclaim.” She smiles ruefully. “In truth, I’m a bit relieved. While I relish the thought of being your harbinger of non-negotiable death, I’m not sure being the conduit for such arcane forces is something I should be taking lightly.” Her mouth falls back into a frown, and she brings a hand to her chin. “Then again, perhaps your past proclamations are part of what set the seed of this power in you?” Ever mercurial, Calio’s barely finished the sentence before she’s grinning again. “Anyway, it’s an honor to be part of the experiment.” Ryolde is about to ask to get the Edict back – maybe there was something in her wording that was off – but Calio’s already rolling it up and tucking it into her bag. “I say we try this again some other day. Learn more about what you can do with your power, and someday I’ll be your herald of doom. It’ll be a date.”

Ryolde shoves the failed Edict – and Tunon’s likely reaction to it – out of her mind. “Deal.”

Before disappearing into the teleporter, Calio has one last quip to throw over her shoulder. “When you rule Terratus, look me up – if you’re successful, I know I’ll be in need of a new Archon to serve.”

Ryolde is about to argue – she’s more than happy to bow to Tunon if that’s what it takes to avoid any bloodshed between the two of them – but Lantry speaks up before she has the chance. 

“I know I’m mostly sober, but just to be clear, you were just named an Archon, correct?” His quill hovers over the parchment in his hands, as if the old Sage is finally at a loss for what to write. “First you cast an Edict, then this full-on war of Archons… this whole chapter of the Chronicle is… it’s reading like fiction.”

On her other side, Verse chuckles under her breath. “So Kyros has ordered all the Archons to fight it out until only the strongest remain? I think we can now safely say that the Scarlet Chorus philosophy has been vindicated.”

Ryolde wouldn’t go that far. It isn’t like this is becoming a new norm of Kyros’ Peace. It’s more likely that Kyros simply wants to get rid of a few Archons, and figures this is the best way to do it. As for what that says about their dear Overlord, well, Ryolde really doesn’t want to think about it.

Barik just grumbles, whatever words he wishes to say being lost under the creaking of his armor.

Killsy’s grin is full of even more bloodlust than usual. “Alpha birthed own words of power like humans’ Prima called Kyros. Is better Mystic than broodmother to Kills-in-Shadow, than Stonestalkers Hundred-Blood – than Beastwoman Archon slaughtered by Archon of Shadows.”

Wait, what?

Mark better hope he has something important to say when next they meet, because Ryolde has questions.

“Kills-in-Shadow knew Alpha was most powerful human in whole of Tiers-lands.” She taps her snout with a single deadly talon. “Nose was not wrong.”

And I’m happy for you, Killsy. But I still have questions.

Besides, most powerful human might be a bit of a stretch, Ryolde thinks, looking to Sirin.

Sirin just raises her hands in a universal sign of innocence. “Don’t look at me.” She moves her hands back down to her hips. “Let’s get one thing clear: I want no part of this little contest. Ryolde – sorry, Archon –  I bow to you.” She shakes her head. “The rest of you can fight over the right to rule this mountainous shithole.”

Ryolde decides to ignore that last bit. “I accept. Thank you.”

The aggravated look on Sirin’s face slips into a smile, and she punctuates the oath with a delicate curtsy. “Just don’t let Nerat get away with a bat of the eyelashes and a polite surrender.”

Ryolde snorts. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” she says, and decides to ignore the relief in Sirin’s eyes.

Right before she makes it to the teleporter, Calio stops, hitting a folded piece of parchment against her forehead with a huff of self-deprecating laughter. “One last thing.” She turns back to face Ryolde. “All this talk of you being the second coming of the Overlord and I almost forgot my duties.” She holds the missive out to Ryolde. “This is court summons from Bleden Mark. Tunon’s assassin,” she adds, as if Ryolde is not intimately familiar with who Bleden Mark is. “I suggest you read it carefully as part of your preparations. Your survival may depend on it.” As she passes the parchment to Ryolde, Calio allows her fingers to brush against the bracer Mark gave her that still adorns Ryolde’s wrist, and Ryolde’s blood goes cold.

Calio grins. “Good luck… Archon.”

Ryolde barely has time to voice her thanks before Calio is gone, and all that is left to the denizens of the Spire is silence, and the howling of far-off winds.

It isn’t until a few days later, while tracking down the man who slew Essa, that Ryolde finally works up the courage to open Mark’s missive. As she stares at the clipped words, written in a precise script, it strikes her how oddly unfamiliar his penmanship is to her. All these years, and she has never had cause to read anything written in his hand.

Wisp, the missive reads.

I take it you’re aware of the Overlord’s latest decree. If not, let me give it to you straight. Now’s a bad time to be an Archon in the Tiers. Since most likely I’ll be the one to cut you down, I thought I’d first explain – it’s not my choice.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not looking forward to it.

See you soon,

     - Bleden Mark, Archon of Shadows and Court Blade

That evening, in the light of the campfire, she takes the missive out of her pocket and reads it over and over, running her fingers along the crease in the middle. It isn’t until a few days later, after they’ve confronted Catorius and left him as nothing but food for his own messenger birds, that she figures out what to say in reply.

Mark, she starts, because she is an Archon now, and besides, they have long since progressed past the point of titles and meaningless platitudes,

If after all this time, I am truly to meet my end at the end of one of your blades, at least do me the favor of meeting me face to face. (Or would that be face to shadow?)

Regardless, at the risk of depriving you the thrill of a good ambush, I would ask that we meet in person, as peers – drawing blades openly – if that is indeed what it has come to. On the reverse of this parchment, I’ve mapped for you a location in the wilderness. Let us meet and settle things there. I’ll provide you two days to scout the location in advance, should you desire.

Hope to see you there,

     -Ryolde

Once the letter has been signed and sealed, Ryolde sits back and watches as it dissolves into the shadows cast by flickering candle on her desk.

For the rest of the time as she readies herself for bed, she studiously avoids glancing back to the table, choosing instead to ignore the desk’s contents until the morning. She buries herself in the furs on the bed that she can’t help but remember is far less comfortable than the one in Mark’s chambers, closes her eyes, and waits for sleep to come.

The next morning, when she opens her eyes and her gaze alights on her desk, Mark’s response is waiting for her.

She doesn’t let herself hesitate, like she did with the first missive. Instead, she immediately goes to the desk upon standing, letting the cold seep through her thin nightshift as she reads.

Little wisp – the old nickname makes her smile in spite of herself.

Since it was you who asked, sure. Why not? I could wait for the Adjudicator’s official order – because make no mistake, the Adjudicator will order him to kill her, Ryolde can practically hear him saying, and the thought turns her stomach almost more than anything else – but this seems much more interesting.

Here’s my conditions – we meet alone and we meet with our blades drawn. And no crying when I carve your eyes out. 

I’ve already scouted the clearing you indicated in your note. Arrive when you like, and I’ll make my presence known.

Remember – no tears, no begging.

     -Mark

The parchment crumples under her fingers as she clenches them into fists to keep her hands from shaking.

After depositing his response on her desk, Mark lingers, casting his eyes along where her blankets fold over her still form. He waits there in silence, even as she sleeps, because even though he knows there’s hardly a place in the Tiers where she would be more protected than Ascension Hall, what with the Disfavored that seem to have made themselves at home there, now that he’s committed to this, he can’t help but feeling somewhat… proprietary towards her life.

He knew things were going to end like this, didn’t he, and now that he’s decided to kill her, he doesn’t want anyone else taking her life before he has the chance to. She is his, his, his, his, beats the blood beneath his soulmark–his to keep and his to kill. She is his, he thinks, but what will be left of him once the deed is done and that part of him is gone?

It would be easier, some voice in the back of his mind supplies, easier to let someone else kill her and be done with it. Mark pushes the thought away, ignoring how much that voice sounds like his daughter.

No, this is how things must be. At least he’ll get one last good fight out of this before it’s all over. It takes him a moment to realize his fists are clenched. He can feel his racing heartbeat pounding against his palms, which are already hot with anticipation. That all-too-familiar hunger begins to howl in his chest and he does his best to ignore how it leaves him feeling faintly ill.

Mark thinks back to his missive, to the threats contained within. Mostly lies, of course, but he knows the only way Ryolde will have a prayer of killing him is if she desperately wants to, and if a few callous lies are what it takes to give the mother of his child a fighting chance of leaving Ashweald alive, well, he’s done worse things for worse reasons.

If this is truly to be the end of Tauni Ryolde, than let it be an ending deserving of her might. She’s earned that much, at least.

Mark watches, and waits, as the sun begins to peak over the lip of Vendrien’s Well and as the newly-proclaimed Archon in the bed before him begins to stir. She takes a moment to stretch, cracking her neck first one way, and then the other, before standing and padding over to the desk.

She barely blinks as she breaks the seal, and her face remains flat as she reads his words. As she finishes, however, her fists clench around the parchment, and he can see how her jaw grows tight. When she’s done, she damn near slams the missive on the desk, glaring at the wall in front of her.

He slips into the shadow her hair casts onto her neck, so he can hear her whispering.

“No tears? No begging?” she says, maybe just because she’s angry or maybe because she knows him well enough by now to know that he’s watching. She huffs, just once, barely enough to even be called laughter, and he doesn’t need to be able to see her face to recognize the twist of her lips. “Don’t worry. I understand.”

Where he waits, closer to her neck than even her own clothes, Mark feels a grin stretch across his face. His little wisp has always fought better with something to prove, and despite himself, he knows one thing: he’s going to enjoy this.

Ryolde has wanted to kill the Archon of Shadows, at least theoretically, many, many times in her life, but never before has the desire been so literal. She thinks of her daughter, of how solid her small form felt after the Ritual of Fallowing turned her insides to dust, and, just for a moment, allows herself to imagine a world where she could have that every day. Her heart swells in her chest, like it’s trying to break her ribcage from the inside, and she pushes the thought away.

The important thing is that Mark is going to come for her no matter what, but maybe if they meet on their own… Ryolde has been alive for too long to even allow herself to finish the sentence. She instead imagines the other possibility of how this confrontation could go, following a declaration of guilt from Tunon, and feels her entire chest sink.

No, she thinks, it’s better this way.

At least this way, she has a chance.

Now that Catorius has been dealt with, and she’s aided Lantry on his little expedition into memory to bid his soulmate farewell, she has no excuse to put Ashe off any longer, so the next morning, once they’ve all gathered their things, Ryolde, Barik, Sirin, and Verse depart for Iron Hearth.

When they get there, the fortress is oddly quiet. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why, especially once they step through the main gate to find Ashe firmly entrenched behind lines of Disfavored. Approaching the fortifications, Ryolde feels herself swallow as she opens her mouth, ready to pull out whatever honeyed words necessary to leave Iron Hearth without bloodshed. She’s reasonably sure that Ashe isn’t going to just attack without warning, not after the many times she’s been the deciding factor in his army’s conquest, but, well, just a span ago, she was also certain that Kyros was the only person who could ever write an Edict, so Ryolde wonders how certain she can be of anything now.

Before she can speak, Ashe silences her by banging the end of war hammer against the earth. So he wants to be the one to lead this confrontation? Ryolde lets her lips fall shut. If Ashe wants to beat on his chest a bit to prove his superiority, she’ll allow it, for now.

“We find ourselves at an impasse.” Ashe’s voice rings out through the now-still fortress. “You are no Fatebinder to be shrugged off, dispatched, or underestimated. No, that time is over. You are an Archon.”

Yes, Ashe, Ryolde wants to say, I’ve noticed. She chooses to ignore the way he describes his treatment of Fatebinders. That’s something that can be addressed later, but it’s still frustrating to hear after all of her long spans spent in service to Ashe’s Iron Legion. Maybe that’s why her voice, when it finally comes, is so harsh. “And you will treat me as such, as from here on out,” I only take orders from Tunon, she wants to say, before she realizes, in the middle of her sentence, that those times have passed as well. “I only take orders from Kyros,” she finishes instead, but wonders at how empty those words feel.

Ashe nods with two parts reluctance and one part pride. “Now that you are counted amongst the Archons, we are indeed equals. But I still require your help in this wretched struggle against the Chorus – that fact has not changed. I cannot pretend to have any ability to compel you, but I hope our alliance is one worth preserving.” Ryolde thinks back to the days in Vendrien’s Well, when all of this started, how their supposed “equal” positions didn’t stop Ashe from demanding compliance from the Voices, and she wonders at his sudden reticence. It takes her a moment to understand why Ashe treads so delicately: he’s afraid of her. Because she’s young, maybe, and the boundaries of her power untested, or maybe because the only power they’ve seen her wield is the power to bring Archons and Empires to heel. It’s strange, to see the Archon of War stepping on so many eggshells around her. Perhaps he is as uncertain of where they stand in this new world as she is.

He seems to get over his fear somewhat, as when he continues, his voice is as hard as she’s ever heard it. “The Voices of Nerat must be executed. With his destruction, his leaderless mob will disperse throughout the Tiers from which they came, and we will be free to subjugate this lawless realm.” Ryolde doubts it will be so simple – a mob with no leader can be a terrible thing – but a low creaking sound fills the air as Ashe tightens his gauntleted grip on his war hammer, and she decides it better to remain silent. “I expect nothing less than your report that the Archon of Secrets has been dealt with. Dismissed.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Ryolde sees Verse nod, minutely, and, on the other side, watches as the Archon of Song clenches her fists. She feels her own lips twist into something between a grin and grimace at the thought of finally being able to wrench that conniving little wretch’s head off. She nods. “I will return when the Archon of Secrets is no more.”

Ashe dismisses them with a tilt of the head, and as she turns to leave, Ryolde clenches her fist to find her daggers already in her palms. Time to see what this blade can do.

They arrive at Cacophony less than a fist later, stopping off at the Mountain Spire only long enough for Ryolde to proclaim another Edict (of Fire, this time, because she has had enough grit in her hair to last a lifetime) on the Stone Sea. Fighting their way through the first two waves of Scarlet Chorus is child’s play, with Verse and Ryolde slicing them to ribbons as Barik draws their fire and Sirin does the work of keeping them all alive. In nearly no time at all, Ryolde’s boots are already beating on the wooden bridge stretched over the chasm between Nerat’s little perch and the rest of Cacophony.

In the shadow of his broken city, the Archon of Secrets slouches in his throne, another bent, twisted figure among the numerous bodies impaled or hung up around him. When he sees Verse and Ryolde crest over the bridge, he clenches a fist and bangs it against his arm rest. “Your campaign ends here, maggot of unreason! We have no intention of joining the uncounted corpses littered in your path.” Ryolde had forgotten the way Nerat’s voice grates on her, the way it slinks down her spine like a whisper and scratches in her ears like a scream.

He leans forward in his throne. “For all the fealty to the Disfavored, has the Archon of War ever set you above his Northern inbreds? No. He would have sacrificed you ten times over to save some braindead grunt from stubbing his toe.”

In response, Ryolde only spreads her hands wide, as if to tell the Archon, I’m still here, aren’t I?

He leans back in his seat with a sigh, as if bereft. “We could have been magnificent together, but instead we will have your bones fashioned into a scepter, your skin knotted into a belt, and your tongue fed to crows.” As he speaks, he clenches his fist once more, splinters breaking off from his throne and into his hand. “At least crows know the meaning of respect and gratitude.”

Ryolde barely keeps from rolling her eyes. He thinks that after a lifetime with Bleden Mark, he can scare her with theatrics? Her daggers are already in her palms when Verse interjects.

“Fatebinder, wait…” Verse’s voice is barely more than a hiss in Ryolde’s ear. “The Voices has been weaving at my loom for years.”

Ryolde doesn’t loosen her grip on her daggers, just pulls her weight to the ball of her back foot. “What are you saying, Verse?”

“I’m saying that he pointed us at Krokus, he led us to Fort Squander, and that he wanted me to learn what I learned there.” As Verse speaks, Ryolde twists her head to glance in her direction, finding her tapping off the points on her fingers. “I’m saying that maybe everything’s gone according to his plan… including this.”

Splinters rain down onto the Archon of Secrets as he unclenches his fist into a dismissive wave. “You presume we possess a more than passing interest in this trumped-up barrister.” A dull echo fills the valley as, with the other hand, he taps the end of his cudgel against what passes for his chin. “Besides, whatever our dear Adjudicator lacks for, his rationality has never been in question. How were we to know that one of Tunon’s students would engage in such ridiculous folly?”

Oh yes, Ryolde thinks. How could you possibly suspect one of Tunon’s regimented followers would take issue with your little anarchic mess? Quite easily, one would assume. She’s also not just simply one of Tunon’s students, and she imagines that the Archon of Shadows’ distaste for the Archon of Secrets is not something Nerat is ignorant of. She narrows her eyes.

Green flames shoot out of the corner of Nerat’s mouth in some twisted semblance of a smile. “Your paranoia delights us, however. A stint in infiltration has complicated you delectably.”

Ryolde can feel the tension rising in the Scarlet Fury at her side, and Verse even goes so far as to take a step towards the Voices, jabbing a finger at his bronze visage as she does. “You think I didn’t work out your little plot? That I didn’t fathom why my sisters got all mixed up inside of me?”

Ryolde can almost hear shrieks of laughter coming from somewhere deep in Nerat’s golden helm. “Don’t dance around the accusation, girl. Seize it – like a lover.”

The softness in Nerat’s voice makes Ryolde’s teeth ache.

“I…” Verse’s face twists, and she shakes her head so strongly that Ryolde almost thinks the feathers in her hair are bound to fall off. “Go fuck yourself, Archon.”

This hesitation… it reminds Ryolde of the stories Verse has told her about when her sisters died, and of the curve of the Fury’s shoulders when she faced down Essa. Ryolde feels just confident enough to let the quip slip out of the corner of her mouth, half a jest and half a threat. “Is this where you betray me, Verse?”

Some of the tightness leaves Verse’s shoulders as she chuckles. “Psh. No. We’re in a gang. Sometimes I may talk like I’m ready to ditch you, but you’re the boss. I’ve got your back, but I also have to take a good, hard look at your judgement before I follow you headfirst into the unknown.” Well, Verse, Ryolde thinks. It’s a little late for second guessing now, but Verse is already standing a bit taller. A bit stronger. “The Voices of Nerat is a terrifying, centuries-old mastermind, and neither of us have been around as long as him. That point seems worth emphasizing. I really, really hope you understand that he’s going to hurt us.” By the end of her little lecture, Verse’s voice is uncharacteristically soft, and small.

Nerat’s voice, on the other hand, is as saccharine sweet as ever. “It’s true. We promise.”

At this point, Ryolde isn’t above throwing a dagger at the Voice’s just to shut him up. “Verse…”

The Scarlet Fury glares at the Voices before turning to Ryolde. “If you’re up to it, then I’m with you. I’ve killed my share of gang bosses, and it doesn’t take a genius to know when a leader is flagging and needs to be replaced.” She turns to Nerat with a sickly sweet smile of her own. “No offence, Archon.”

From where he sits, the Voices of Nerat might as well be watching a particularly enjoyable theatre troupe. “None taken, wretched girl. We have never been more proud of you than at this moment. You are everything the Chorus strives to become.”

There is something deeply disconcerting about the way that the Voices can swivel his head without moving a single other part of his body, Ryolde thinks as Nerat turns once more to her. “Perhaps all is not lost between us, Fatebinder. Perhaps you would be willing to accept a settlement of our grievances in exchange for the return of our Fury.”

 The laugh bubbles up in Ryolde’s chest before she has even a hope of controlling it. She tightens her hold on her daggers, feeling, rather than hearing, the leather creak under her grip. “There’s no version of this conversation in which I give you Verse.”

At her side, Verse crosses her arms. “Sorry, Voices. Looks like I found a new Archon to follow.”

The Voices no doubt has his own response all planned out, but Ryolde turns to Verse before he has a chance to spew any more bullshit. “What do you say, Verse? Shall we end his miserable existence together?”

She grins, full of hard, flat teeth. “Sounds like a plan to me, boss. I’ll sleep a lot better knowing there’s one less parasite in the world.”

Perched on his throne, the Voices sighs like the overdramatic diva he is. “Our little spy is right about one thing, you know. You’re going to die screaming, but your awareness will live for eternity, suffering within our magnificence.” The Voices grunts as he heaves himself out of his seat, as if only capable of doing so by laboring under some great effort. As he stands, he calls out to his followers. “Attend to us, darlings! There is more than one way to skin a Fatebinder, and we will show you as many as possible.” Ryolde can see the serrated edge of his curved blade gleaming in the scorching air as he spreads his arms wide, like he’s a gladiator in a ring. “Come, gather around and watch us destroy the Fatebinder!”

Behind her, Ryolde can hear the rope winch whining as the bridge is pulled up. She shoulders her bow off of her back. Guess there’s only one way out of here.

The Voices brings his arms up and back with a flourish, and a glowing red sigil burns into existence in front of him. In response to the warding magic, flames rise up to sear a ring around his feet.

Barik immediately charges the Archon, his shield meeting Nerat’s cudgel with a crash. Ryolde pulls her bow up to her eye, lining up her first shot. The arrow whistles under Barik’s arm and sinks into the Voices’ ribs.

Nerat hisses, and his head twists around so that one of the many faces on his mask is glaring at her. He gestures at her with his sword, but Ryolde is already nocking an explosive arrow.

“Binder, look out!” At Verse’s yell, Ryolde turns suddenly to find Pelox Florian charging at her, his body made of green flame. Watching him thunder towards her, she barely has time to swing her bow around and lose the arrow in his direction before he’s on top of her.

The arrow goes off in the middle of Florian’s forehead. The orange flames clash with green, and Ryolde has to throw her arms up to protect her eyes. She can feel the flames lick against her right arm. On her left, the bracer Mark gave her starts to tighten, and heat up, as if it doesn’t much enjoy the feeling of being set on fire. Florian’s falx careens at her, and Ryolde just manages to duck in time.

“Verse!”

In response, she hears, rather than sees, arrows whistle by over her head.

Crouched against the hard ground, she can hear the Voices taunting Barik a few paces away. This is a waste of time. She braces herself against the dirt, giving herself a second to plant her feet firmly in the dirt. Then she jumps.

She buries one dagger, then two, into Florian’s side. She then thrusts her hands backwards, away from him, and as she backflips away, she brings her foot up to bash against his chin. Her boot makes contact with a satisfying crunch. Now a good three paces away, she brings her bow back up, finishing what’s left of the Oathbreaker with a well-placed arrow to the eye.

“Nice shot, Binder!”

“Less talking, Verse, and more stabbing!”

Ryolde can practically hear the bloodthirst in the Scarlet Fury’s voice. “Got it, Boss!”

Palming two more daggers, Ryolde runs towards where Barik and Sirin stand against the Archon of Secrets. Once she gets close enough, she ducks down and rolls, slotting under Barik’s arm and popping up just in time to slide a knife into the Archon’s back. She can see him start, and the face on the back of his head glares at her. Nerat brings his cudgel up and around, towards Ryolde’s face, and she has to leap away to avoid getting hit.

Snarling, Nerat turns away from Barik completely, setting his grinning, glittering gaze on her. She slams her right wrist down against his to stop the upward swing of his blade, so he brings his cudgel up once more, aiming for Ryolde’s head. She clenches her right fist more tightly around her dagger and twists, so the end of it is buried in Nerat’s left arm, so he hisses and pulls his arm back. She lets go of the dagger, leaving it there. It isn’t as if she doesn’t have more on her. As she reaches into her armor for another knife, she jams the pommel of her dagger into Nerat’s elbow, forcing his other arm to bend and the cudgel to streak just past her face. She’s just tugging a third knife out of her armor when she sees it: the curve of Nerat’s blade. Her heart pounds as she realizes her mistake. The dagger impaled in his arm, which would have incapacitated a lesser foe, is nothing to the Archon of Secrets. She darts her eyes around, but it’s too late to stop her momentum. She twists, hoping to catch the edge on something non-vital, when-

Her bracer burns, and then gapes open, as if it’s swallowing her whole, and when the Voices slams his knife into her side, she isn’t there anymore. Instead, all that’s left of her is a shadowy silhouette, and she watches his knife sail through her abdomen as if it’s made of air.

Nerat giggles, if any sound that comes out of such a creature can be described as such. “We see that the Archon of Shadows has taught you well, little Fatebinder. Shame it won’t be-“

His voice cuts off as Barik slams his shield into the side of Nerat’s head. He stumbles, curses, and lashes out with his cudgel.

Ryolde can’t help herself. “Won’t be what? I’m sorry, Archon, you didn’t finish!” Her voice sounds echoey and deep, as if coming from far away. She feels light, and fast, and alert, as if she really is made of shadows and not just protected by them. A wisp of healing magic bounces off of Barik and onto her arm, but Ryolde wants to tell Sirin it isn’t necessary. She feels as if she could walk on water.

Taking in the enemies surrounding him, the Archon of Secrets brings his weapons together and slams them down before him with a thud. All around them, the sky opens up, and meteors of fire come crashing down. One passes straight through Ryolde’s now incorporeal form, and she laughs.

The rest of her companions don’t take the flaming rocks with as much ease. Verse is forced to divert attention from the Archon so that she can dodge out of the way of the biggest ones, and Barik takes a few handily before it becomes clear that even his metallic shell doesn’t protect him from being on fire.

Ryolde is about to move towards him, if only to push a healing potion into his hands, but before she can take a step, a high, clear melody rings out around them. Instantly, Ryolde feels buoyed up, and the small fires licking at Barik’s armor go out with a hiss.

It’s as if they’re encased in bubbles of sound, and the rest of the meteors crash to Terratus without singing a single hair on any of their heads. Once the spell is over, Ryolde can see that Sirin is panting slightly, but as the Archon of Song surveys the damage that she’s prevented, the spell that she’s mitigated, a viciously satisfied grin spreads across her face.

Laughing in earnest now, Ryolde leaps back into the fray. She dodges first the cudgel, and then the blade. The Archon of Secrets is making a valiant effort, but there’s four of them and only one of him, and even he can’t stand against those odds forever. When he summons more doubles, Ryolde simply barks an order at Verse.

“On my command!” Ryolde hits the dirt, and Verse leaps off of her back and into the air, sending a volley of arrows into the flickering specters. Finishing the rest of them off is simply a matter of Ryolde slipping through the battlefield and sinking her blades into exposed necks, or ribs, or thighs. Watching her dismantle his little cantrips, the Archon of Secrets spits curses at her, yanking himself through space and across the battlefield to her side.

Ryolde’s fine if the Archon wants to focus his fire on her – better that than Verse, who, obviously, lacks Ryolde’s new found protections, or Sirin, whose robes provide little protection at all. Before Ryolde can blink, however, Nerat raises his elbow, slamming it into her jaw. The hit lands with a crunch. Ryolde feels something along the side of her face pop. Ducking under his next swing, Ryolde probes her bottom teeth with her tongue. Something’s definitely broken. The shadows around her body roil and burn, winding themselves more tightly to her form. At her jaw, particularly, they buzz and hiss like flies. Ryolde drops one hip, shooting her leg out in an attempt to trip the Voices up, but he dances away nimbly. She clenches her jaw, and, deep inside her, something begins to fester, something dark, and hungry, and mean. She tastes blood, mixing with the ash in the air. She wants the Voices dead, maybe more than she’s wanted anyone dead in her life, but beyond that, she wants to rip through his skin and watch the flames seep out like smoke, wants to feel his mask crack under her hands. She wants to stand over his broken form and laugh.

The shadows coil around her leg as she jumps. Her boot cracks against Nerat’s mask and sends it spinning. As he recoils, she leaps forward again, slashing at his exposed chest with one knife, then the other. Before he can react, she buries both knives into his chest and pulls them outward, towards his hunched shoulders. Her mouth feels dry as she watches the rip in his doublet, waiting to see if green fire will ooze out like blood. Anticipation begins to knot in her stomach. Then the Voice’s mask snaps back up, fire shooting out of every orifice. Green flames erupt from Nerat’s body. Maybe they take the form of a person, and maybe they don’t – it’s all Ryolde can do to throw her arms up in front of her face in time to protect her eyes. Even through the haze surrounding her, she can feel the flames lick at her body.

Then, all of a sudden, Barik’s in front of her, shield up and between her and Nerat. He spits a curse at the Voices before bashing his shield against Nerat’s shoulder. The Voices’ head spins as he makes to teleport away again, and out of the corner of her eye, Ryolde spots something that makes her blood run cold.

On the far side of the battlefield, Sirin stands alone, a pale blue stripe against Cacophony’s sea of brown and red. Nerat’s weapons are already in the air, ready to bring them down on her head, and Ryolde knows that it’s going to be almost impossible for her to make it across the battlefield in time.

That doesn’t mean she isn’t going to try.

She feels the binding on her wrist pulse as she sprints. She’s barely halfway to Sirin when her vision goes black, and when it clears, she’s right between the Archon and his prey.

Always a good place to be, right?

Ryolde takes Nerat’s bludgeon across the right side of her chest, and she feels, rather than hears, her ribs splinter against her lungs. She dimly hears Sirin’s cry of alarm, but she’s already turning and burying a dagger into Nerat’s shoulder. Sirin’s healing magic envelopes her in a warm glow as Ryolde moves to block Nerat’s bone saw. With the other hand, she twists her knife around and jams it into the Voices’ eye socket. Cracks spread across his mask like spiderwebs. The Voices falls back, and when he rears forward again, purple energy rears up with him.

“Want to know a secret?” The Archon hisses as he gets swept up in the riotous glow. It erupts out of him, swallowing him up and pushing Ryolde and Sirin back at least three paces. The wind tugs and pulls at Ryolde’s hazy form, and for a moment, she’s afraid that the mist that makes up her body is about to blown apart. On the other side of the battlefield, Verse dances with the last of Nerat’s doubles, and Barik takes advantage of the Voice’s momentary hesitation to rush past Ryolde. As he charges, Barik raises the Dauntless over his head, summoning his own wave of blue energy in response to the Archon’s. The strength contained in the sword settles into Ryolde’s arms like a lover, and she finds it in her to pull her broken ribs apart as she yells.

“Barik, get ready! Verse, keep him busy!” Verse buries her blade in the double’s gut, and it disappears with a hiss. Verse’s knives meet Nerat’s with a clang, and Ryolde’s lips pull around her teeth. Ryolde’s chest feels like she’s being stretched on a rack, but she raises her hand anyway, channeling a pulling force down her arm. At her wrist, Mark’s bracer thrums eagerly. Screeching fills the battlefield as swords and sharp twists of metal yank themselves out of Barik’s armor. They spin in the air for a moment, aligning themselves. Ryolde feels a tremor run down the entire right side of her body. Above her, a dozen barbed implements come to a jarring stop. She gasps, certain that this is the moment when she has finally pushed too far, asked for too much, that’s she’s about to crumple to the ground like a marionette whose strings have snapped.

Sirin’s voice is pure, and clear, and lands in Ryolde’s ear like water onto a desert. All of a sudden, her knees are as immovable as mountains, and when the note rises in pitch, she can see Nerat’s own knees buckle under the strain. Verse darts forward, blade in the air. It slices a jagged gash down Nerat’s arm, but Sirin’s singing drowns out the sound of tearing fabric. Sirin’s crescendo hits a fever pitch, Verse leaps away, and Ryolde clenches her fist, sending her deadly cargo recoiling to its target.

The first blade sinks into the back of Nerat’s thigh. The second slides through whatever passes for the freak’s ribs, and the third skewers Nerat’s shoulder. The remaining spikes lance the Archon at various points, until he’s pinned to the earth like a beetle to a board. From where she stands before him, Verse spears the center of his chest with her last remaining knife, but even Ryolde can see that it’s not necessary.

Cacophony falls quiet as the Archon of Secret goes suddenly, violently still.

 A few shards fall off of Nerat’s helm as he raises his head. The tears in his red suit weep green flames. “Approach us, you insignificant little morsel… we would have a word with you.”

Something inside Ryolde unclenches, and she allows the shadows that enveloped her to slip back into the binding on her wrist. As they trace their way across her skin, she feels them soak up the blood on her skin like a sponge, and once the bracer is finally still, it settles warmly against her arm. As she breaths, her ribs feel blessedly whole. Whatever hunger it buried inside of her, it seems to be satisfied with her pain. For now.

She keeps her hands on her knives, though, as she addresses the Archon of Secrets. “Say what you will, creature.”

The Voices of Nerat slides forward, sending Verse’s blade more deeply into his chest. “Whatever the thoughtless rabble may whisper about this moment, don’t delude yourself into thinking you are powerful, that you matter, or that someone out there isn’t greater still.” His shoulders shake in something resembling a laugh, and more pieces of his mask fall away. “We came from nothing. Our deeds defined us to the people, and the people knew us as a monster. Did you imagine we were always flames, voices, and secrets? Think on that, you Archon of misguided decisions.”

Ryolde’s jaw still aches as she grinds her teeth together. “I could never become anything like you.” She knows her history. She knows how the Voices of Nerat started on the path, how the scion of House Nerat turned on his family and served them up on pike and rack for Kyros’ glory. She thinks of Djin, and then she thinks of the Overlord, and then she thinks of Mark, of the missive that still sits on her desk. She will never be anything like the Voices.

Nerat pushes himself forward once more before falling back with something resembling a sigh. “Couldn’t you? How much you’ve changed since this war began… imagine if you subjugated that same pressure to centuries of time. We don’t have to wonder, but you do! You have all the time in the world!” Something about the thought seems to strike him as absolutely hilarious, and the Archon of Secrets starts to chuckle. Then the chuckle turns into laughter, and then the laughter turns into guffawing. As his chest shakes with his mirth, the tears in his red suit grow wider and wider, exposing more and more of the frenzy inside to the world. The Archon’s laughter seems to ring in her ears until it cuts out suddenly, and Ryolde watches green flames consume him from the inside out.

And so the Voices of Nerat is extinguished.

Ryolde feels a gentle touch on her elbow, and turns to see the Archon of Song, shaking. Her face is just on the doubtful side of hopeful, as if she can’t quite believe what just happened. “Is… is he truly dead? Can I hope that the monster than tormented me will never torment another?”

Yes, Ryolde wants to say, and to wrap the girl in her arms besides. Yes, he will never again hurt you, or anybody else.

You’re safe, she wants to tell her.

Barik’s armor creaks as he leans over the Archon’s remains for his own perusal. “Is that thing truly dead? I’m actually asking, because it was difficult enough to tell that he was alive.”

Verse shares neither of their reticence. “Good riddance, asshole,” she spits, dragging a boot through the tattered bits of cloth. “Shouldn’t have screwed with me and my sisters.

On the buildings around them, the gathered Chorus raise their fists in a single, solemn salute for their fallen Archon, before turning as one and shuffling off the platforms. Steam erupts from the cracks in the ground, filling the air with hissing, but other than that, the plateau is silent.

Ryolde approaches the smoldering rags, nudging them with her toe before stooping to pick up Nerat’s weapons from where they lie next to his remains. She remembers the name of his cudgel, dimly, probably from some bygone lesson of Rhogulus’. As she holds the Final Scream to her face, a shudder runs down her spine, and for a moment, she wants nothing more than to drop the damn thing into the dust and leave it there. Staring at the face’s gaping maw, however, she knows she can’t just leave such a weapon where any member of the Horde could pick it up, so she wraps it tightly in a piece of cloth from her bag and secures it to the side of her pack.

“Come on,” she says as she stands. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m sick of this place.”

Chapter Text

They arrive at Iron Hearth a fist and a half later, having stopped off at the Sunset Spire to deposit the Final Scream with the Forge-bound there – if anyone will know how to store the Kyros-forsaken thing safely, it’s Zdenya – and at Ascension Hall to rest up, as well as have a truly terrifying conversation with Verse about the likelihood of the Voices being dead for good. Quite frankly, the idea of the Voices of Nerat coming back from the dead is enough to give even Ryolde nightmares, and she spent most of her adolescence under the tutelage of Bleden Mark.

Speaking of the Archon of Shadows, his missive is still exactly where she left it, sucking the light away from the candle on her desk. She spends the three days at Ascension Hall dutifully ignoring it.

One Archon at a time, she tells herself.

When they arrive at Iron Hearth, the fortress is just as silent as she remembers it being, and she finds herself wondering idly if any of the Disfavored have moved since she left. Graven Ashe is exactly as she remembers him, standing tall in the middle of his troops, but it doesn’t take the eyes of a marksman to be able to spot the pale sheen of sweat on his bald pate.

As she approaches his fortifications, she can see the Archon of War pass his gaze over her before nodding to himself. “I see no fresh blood on your armor, but I sense that something has happened. Where once many congregated, there is now an absence. That can only mean one thing…” Ashe inhales deeply. “The Voices of Nerat is no more. Can this be true?”

Ryolde remembers the way the Archon of Secrets dissolved into green flames, and allows the memory to sink into her spine. She draws her shoulders up, but before she can speak, a shudder travels through Ashe’s entire body. He clenches his eyes shut, bringing one hand to the arm that holds up his war mace as if to stop it from trembling. He has to take a moment to recover his composure, and there is a long silence as Ryolde waits for Ashe to open his eyes again.

As he does, she can’t help but give voice to her concerns. “Are you well, Archon?” She is sure to include the title, hoping the display of etiquette will endear him to answer honestly. 

His eyes slam down from their half-lidded state to a heavy glare. “Well enough, damn you!” She feels her own eyes widen, and the lines of Ashe’s face fold with remorse. “I… oh, forgive me, Fatebinder…” He brings a hand to his mouth to wipe a line of spittle from his chin. “Suffice to say that this war has taken its toll on me, as have all the battles of centuries past. I have lost more friends and countrymen than any sane General could be expected to endure.” He tries to look stern, but the expression falls off of his face, as if he lacks the strength to hold it there. “I take each death personally, you understand. Down to the rank and file of my Stone Shields, the harm inflicted on my Northern sons and daughters… at times it seems visited upon me as well.”

Ryolde has served with Ashe for many years, and despite their disagreements, she can’t help but respect the old general. He views every one of his legion as one of his very own children, and he would protect his children with his life. It’s a sentiment Ryolde understands well. Yet she finds herself remembering not the many men that Ashe must have lost, but the stories he told her about his children, the way his mouth had still curved with the memory of a smile, and how even now, decades later, one could see a father’s love shining in his glowing eyes.

Looking at Ashe now, Ryolde wonders what will come of her in the decades and centuries to come, and she finds the notion more terrifying than anything Nerat could hiss at her in his final moments.

Ashe waves off her concern with an idle hand, but even from the other side of the barricade, Ryolde can see that hand is shaking. “But never mind an old man’s ruminations. You have a report to make, and I am anxious to hear it.” He pulls himself tall, but Ryolde notes how he leans heavily against his war mace. Whatever strength the Archon of War seems to have, Ryolde knows it to be an illusion as clearly as she knows the color of her daughter’s hair or the curve of her smile.

She pulls herself up along with him. She can feel her lips stretching across her teeth, but she somehow doubts the expression truly resembles a smile. “Your suspicions are correct. I have destroyed the Archon of Secrets.”

Ashe’s shoulders drop with noticeable relief.  “At last, the Scarlet Chorus are undone! We can properly conduct this war and subjugate the Tiers as Kyros intended. That I can see this day while the Voices of Nerat grows cold… he would never forget this indignity.”

Ryolde allows the Archon a moment to be a father, viciously pleased that his son’s murderer lies dead in the dirt. “Will someone claim the Archon’s vacant title?”

Ashe grimaces at the prospect, which almost exactly resembles how Ryolde feels about the matter, but finally nods. “In time, yes. No doubt they will have to be as treacherous as he was, though I cannot imagine their power will resemble his. For all his multitudes, the Voices of Nerat was a singular being. Nothing like him has ever existed, or likely will again.”

Or so we can hope, Ryolde thinks. One Archon at a time, she reminds herself. Outwardly, she clears her throat. “We still have to settle the matter of Kyros’ decree. Only one Archon may rule the Tiers.”

Graven Ashe bunches one hand at his hip. “Yes… I thought that we would come to this. I had hoped to avoid the confrontation. Your service to my army has been exemplary, and I hate to lose a friend on the eve of victory.” Oh, is that what I am now, Ryolde thinks. “I knew you as Tunon’s pupil, but now you are an Archon, and so much more. I would see you continue in your service to Kyros, but as my ally rather than my enemy. Bow in allegiance to me, and Kyros will be appeased. We can govern this lawless land together, and invite these savages into civilized custom.”

And so we finally get to the heart of it. Ryolde thinks of the Conquest, thinks of the endless squabbles and ineptitude, and thinks of her many years spent learning of Kyros’ Peace from the mouth of the Adjudicator himself. She thinks of the way Ashe’s hand trembles against his war hammer, and she knows what her decision will be. She pulls her shoulders back. “I haven’t come this far to bend the knee.”

The Archon of War crosses his arms, one hand still holding his mace, over his chest. “I was afraid this would be your temperament, and it saddens me. Power should have humbled you, but it has made you vain. What do you propose, then? Will we fight to the death needlessly, or will you reconsider my offer?”

Ryolde can’t be sure if his affected ignorance of the third option is feigned or not, but she levels her chin at him – as much as she can, anyway. He is much bigger than she is. “There is another way. You can bow to me.”

Ashe responds about as well to her suggestion as she expected him to. When he speaks, he sounds so angry he could practically spit. “A proposal as insulting as it is laughable. You are an Archon in your infancy – unproven, untested, and unprepared for the trials of leadership.” Ryolde can almost hear the creaking of leather against metal as he clenches his fists.

Her mouth is dry, but at her wrist, she can feel the bracer humming, its warm weight oddly comforting. She finds herself reaching for its power, and is reassured to find it waiting for her, in case this all goes horribly wrong. “Submit. I have proven myself the true General, and your army is mine to command.”

Ashe’s face goes almost as purple as his armor. “Yours? By what possible right, by what mad ambition do you challenge my… my…” He looks at the soldiers around him, and his shoulders drop as he sees what she has seen for spans now.

Ashe may hold the hearts of the Disfavored, but since Vendrien’s Well, Ryolde has held their lives, their futures, and their victories in the palm of her hands. He ceased to be their General long ago.

This moment is hers, and all here know it. “Look at your troops, Ashe.” Ryolde spreads her arms as wide as wings to encompass the men and women that stand around them. “You are their father, but I am their commander.”

Suddenly, his shoulders fall, the movement as heavy as an avalanche. “I… I am not ignorant to the wisdom of your words. They pierce me like a lance through my heart, but there is truth in them. This conquest has opened old wounds. At times, I have not acted the leader that my army deserved.” His gaze is fixed somewhere in front of him, but Ryolde isn’t quite sure he’s seeing what he’s staring at. “I was an accomplished warlord in the earliest days of the Empire. There was no fortress I couldn’t breach, no distance I couldn’t march… but the years have reduced me.” He looks up again, meeting Ryolde’s eyes. “I cared too deeply for my legion to see them suffer.

“I lost nearly everyone for whom I cared, and suffered for those I sought to protect. I would not wish this for anyone.” He inhales deeply, but his shoulders are lighter than Ryolde has ever seen them. “I submit to your authority as Archon and master of the Disfavored. Where you lead, I go. Where you command, I follow.”

Ryolde doesn’t know if her smile contains more relief or more pride. “A wise choice. The Disfavored will see their honor restored under my rule.”

His men step aside, falling into lines that allow Ryolde access to her newest vassal. As she strides through the aisle created by the kneeling Disfavored, lighting crackles along her spine, and she can feel all the Edicts she’s broken thrumming in her chest. Fire glints in her eyes, and her fists could crush mountains. When she stands before Ashe, he inclines his head slightly. “Archon, you have proven yourself a truer General than I ever was. I relinquish my hold over these women and men, and place them in your keeping.” For the first time since she met him all those years ago, the Archon of War stands at ease. “I ask only that you be good to them. They are far from home, and deserve treatment and leadership fitting of their noble blood.” Even with his newly relaxed spine, Ashe seems to stand even taller than before. “I submit to you. As your Archon, I will obey your laws, carry out your orders, and protect whatever way of life you see fit to impose on the Tiers… and beyond.”

With that, Graven Ashe falls to one knee.

For the first time in her memory, Ryolde notes, she’s able to look Ashe in the eye without getting a crick in her neck.

“You carry a heavy burden now. It is no small task to lead a legion. Their lives, and their deaths, are yours to bear.” Ryolde can’t be sure, but it almost looks like the Great General is… weeping. “At times… the strain was too much, even for the likes of me. Devotion claims a heavy toll, and over the years, it wore me down until…” His eyes remain fixed on some point in the distance.

Ryolde tilts her head down slightly to catch his gaze. “Are you alright, Ashe?” Perhaps one shouldn’t treat their vassals with such concern, but what can she say, she’s new to this.

He shakes his head briskly, and with his bushy beard, he almost resembles a dog trying to get water out of its fur. “Fine, fine. Ignore an old man’s wandering mind. You are young yet, with the world laid out before you. Your soldiers will look to you for guidance. You must be ready to take on any challenge on their behalf. Lead by example. Lead with the iron fist of the Disfavored.”

Ryolde inclines her head, if only slightly, out of respect for the century of service the man before her has given his legion. “I will do everything in my power to deserve this honor.”

Ashe stands, as do the rest of his legion, and soon, riotous cheering fills the fortress as the legion celebrates their new General.

“The time has come to bring glory and triumph to this conquest. Go now and bring order to what remains of the Tiers. I will stay behind with the army – training and preparing to carry out your will.”

And so yet another Archon falls before Ryolde’s might.

Once the Voices of Nerat has been successfully vanquished – finally – and Graven Ashe has been brought to heel – he would have just killed the bastard, but to each their own – Mark expects Ryolde to depart for Ashweald with something resembling alacrity – it isn’t as if she has another option, unless she wants to face him at Tunon’s court – but she doesn’t. Instead, the next time she leaves the Aurora Spire, it’s with the Tidecaster in tow, and rather than head for the Contested Lands, they instead go east, and deeper into the Stone Sea. Watching as the metal man clanks along behind Ryolde, it isn’t difficult to discern their destination. Sure enough, after a few days’ trek through the canyons and pillars of the Stone Sea, they eventually arrive at the small forge that they had visited all that time ago.

Ryolde must have talked (or ordered) Ashe into removing his protections from his Stone Shield, and now she’s here to finish what she started all those years ago in Stalwart.

Shame, Mark thinks. He was looking forward to peeling the son of Barikonen out of his armor, like a lobster from its shell, and watching him writhe.

It’s as they somewhat unceremoniously barge through the door to the forge that Mark realizes what Ryolde is doing: she’s stalling. She doesn’t want to confront him, so she’s lining up other menial tasks in order to put it off.

He has to chuckle at the idea. Hasn’t she learned by now? There’s no way to outrun your own shadow. And there’s certainly no way for his little soulmate to outrun him.

Ah, well. If she wants to try prying this walking statue out of his metal prison one last time before she dies, then who is he to stop her?

He tunes out most of the mage-smith’s explanation, though he does have to spare a snort for the Stone Shield’s naiveté where the funeral rites of the Disfavored are concerned. Does he really think that the Forge-bound would pour their entire lives into forging iron armor only to see it consigned to the dirt? When Ryolde volunteers her own blood for the ritual, however, he finds himself suddenly much more interested in the conversation. Didn’t she listen to a thing Ashe told her? Care for your vassals if you must, but never put their own well-being before yours. For Kyros’ sake, he knows that Tunon would see his head on a spike before allowing him to undermine the Adjudicator’s power. He suspects it’s her attempt to be honorable – she put Barik in that armor, after all, she probably sees it as her duty to get him out of it – but he shakes his head anyway.

Honor doesn’t suit her.

He watches as her eyes trace the line of Barik’s shadow on the floor. “Would the blood of an Archon work?”

At this, he has to pause. Really? Really, little wisp? It’s not enough for you to volunteer your own blood, you have to volunteer mine, as well? She can forget it. Even if she were able to incapacitate him – a rather large if – he would rather die painfully many times over than see this whining sycophant rewarded for it.

Thankfully for all involved, Barik seems to have an idea of his own for probably the first time in his life, and suggests the statue at Edgering Ruin – the one that weeps blood. When they depart for the Ruin, Mark follows, if out of curiosity more than anything else. It was there, in Vendrien’s Well, that all this began, and due to Kyros’ Edict, he wasn’t able to watch the first time. They arrive at the ruin to find it crawling with Bane, because of course it is, but it isn’t like a few Bane pose a threat to any of them at this point, so they slice through the monsters with ease and head for the statue. Ryolde crosses the gap between the cliff and the lip of the statue with a running leap, and from there, it’s a simple matter of filling a barrel with… whatever it is, exactly, that rains from the statue’s eye.

Call it morbid curiosity, but Mark decides to check for himself. It’s easy enough to slip into one of the shadows on Queen whatever-her-name-is’ face, but even after he sticks a finger into the red torrent and licks it off, he finds he still can’t be sure of what exactly it is. The fluid is definitely saturated with magic, with Kyros’ magic, no less, and that magic is strong enough to cover up any of the liquid’s more material properties.

By this point, the barrel is full, and Ryolde chucks it back to her metal bodyguard with a huff. She then flings herself across the gap once more, and the squad is back on their way.

Ryolde pauses for a second under the archway at the edge of the ruins, casting her gaze about the crumbling rocks with something like nostalgia in her eyes. Mark finds himself thinking back to the time before Ryolde proclaimed the Edict of Execution, before she awoke the Mountain Spire and catapulted herself into Kyros’ eyes, before she was named an Archon and thrust into a delicate dance she has no chance of winning. He thinks of the gleam of her green eyes, meeting his over Djin’s curls, and wonders what he will tell his daughter about her mother, after she is gone. He feels his pulse throb under her sigil on his wrist, and he wonders what will be left of him to tell.

“Ryolde?” Sirin’s voice is soft, and he imagines her hand, where it rests on Ryolde’s elbow, is even more so.

Ryolde shakes her head. “I’m all right. Let’s go.”

None of her companions say anything, but from where he resides in the shadows around her wrist, Mark can feel her blood pounding against her skin like her thumb against parchment all those years ago.

It takes them a few more days to return to the mage-smith, barrel of blood in hand. The process itself is long, and messy, and Ryolde finds she has nothing to offer Barik but words. By the time it’s done, the whole forge stinks of rust and human feces, and the liquid in the tub has darkened far beyond red to a brown so deep it’s practically black, but Barik stands before them, naked, shivering, and, for the first time in years, finally free. After checking to make sure he’s all still there – the ritual was practically traumatizing to watch, much less to be a part of – Ryolde settles matters with Lycentia, receiving the ax she’s made from the metal and letting the Forge-bound keep the rest of the remains for her troubles. She tosses Barik some clothes out of her pack, glad she remembered for grab them when they left Ascension Hall, and after thanking Lycentia once more, they turn and depart back to the Aurora Spire.

Something sinks in Ryolde’s chest as they walk.

One Archon at a time, she told herself, and now the Archon of Shadows has made his way to the top of her list.

On the second day of travel, they come across a secluded hollow, where a small stream runs into multiple pools before rushing out of the valley. The pools are dotted with algae, and Ryolde wonders if they may have stumbled upon the last spot of green in the entirety of Azure. They seem perfectly clean otherwise, and when Sirin suggests they stop, if only to give Barik a chance to bathe, Ryolde is more than willing to take a short break.

It doesn’t take much to get Barik to strip down to his small clothes, though if Ryolde figures that if she had gone three years without being able to wash herself, she’d probably sink into the water and never leave. Eb is eager enough to join him in the water, though she waves off Ryolde’s arched eyebrow with a chuckle. As far as Ryolde is concerned, the two of them can do as they please. She’s feeling somewhat nasty herself, and the air is still warm with the lingering effects of her Edict, so the pools look just about like a paradise right now.

As she begins to unbuckle her leather armor, tugging Mark’s bracer from her wrist and tucking it safely into her pack, she notices that Sirin has made no move to join them, despite the way her gaze lingers on the pools wistfully.

Ryolde reaches out an arm to brush a hand against Sirin’s elbow. “What about you?” she asks, once the Archon of Song looks up. “Care to wash up?”

Sirin huffs, crossing her arms. “Believe me, I’d love to.” She waves a hand at her helm. “Kyros didn’t exactly take hygiene into account when crafting this lovely piece of headgear, however.”

Ryolde shrugs, standing after pulling off her trousers. “I could help wash your hair, if you’d like.”

Sirin narrows her eyes at Ryolde, as if searching for some kind of threat hidden in her words, but Ryolde just spreads her hands wide, raising her eyebrow as if to say, I have a daughter, remember? I know something about washing someone else’s hair. Finally satisfied, Sirin tucks her chin against her chest, looking at the ground before speaking. “I’d… I’d like that.” She looks up again, to where Barik is struggling to cut through the layer of grime that covers just about every inch of his body. She chuckles. “We might want to move upwind, though.”

Ryolde laughs, stooping down to palm her soap. “That’s probably a good idea.” The two of them follow one of the waterfalls to another pool on the platform bellow the first, where the cliff and the jagged landscape provide some kind of privacy from the pool above. As Sirin pulls her dress over her head, Ryolde catches a glimpse of strands of color twisting together on her back. Sirin’s soulmark is a riotous swirl of raven’s-wing blue and pale silver on her lower back, right above her left hip, half a painting and half a bruise, quickly covered up as Sirin steps into the water and wets her hair to the best of her ability.

Ryolde perches herself on a rock at the water’s edge, dipping her hands in just long enough to get them wet before rubbing the bar of soap between them to work up a lather. “You know, you’ve been a bit quieter than usual since… things with Nerat. Are you doing all right?”

Sirin heaves a sigh as she leans against Ryolde’s rock. “No, it’s… everything’s fine. But… I appreciate you asking.”

They fall silent as Ryolde begins lathering the soap into the ends of Sirin’s hair, under where the helmet cups her scalp.

“I’ve made some progress on that ancient musical score. I’m almost completely sure it’s the same music I hear in the crystal we found.”

Ryolde pauses in her work, noting that as she climbs, the lather is thinning – a clear sign of more oily hair. “You’ve made a breakthrough? It seems like that would be a good thing.”

Sirin’s hair slides through Ryolde’s fingers as she shakes her head. “It’s simply… not what I was hoping for, I suppose. No matter…”

Once the suds have reached the rim of Sirin’s helm, Ryolde taps her shoulder to indicate to her to submerge. Sirin dips her head back under the water. When she comes back up, she’s quiet, watching the froth sail down the next waterfall and out of view. “This music – I think it describes something… fundamental. About magic, I mean. Or at least the magic of the Oldwalls.” Sirin’s shoulders curve into her chest, and she doesn’t sound all that certain.

Ryolde pauses, looping the ends of Sirin’s hair around her fingers and moving them off to the side. Suddenly her disappointment makes a lot more sense. Ryolde begins running her soapy fingers under the edge of Sirin’s helmet. “Which probably means that Cairn didn’t leave it behind for you.”

Ryolde nudges Sirin’s head down so that she can have more room to work, and Sirin responds by clasping a hand to her face. “I thought he might have. But I was just being a foolish, silly… stupid little girl.”

While she continues to squeeze the fingers of her left hand under the helm, Ryolde brings her other hand around to tug Sirin’s away from her forehead. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s human to hope, and sometimes hopes get dashed.”

Sirin instead brings her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them. She nods slightly. “Thank you.” Her voices takes a somewhat lighter edge. “Sometimes I forget that the Overlord’s minions can occasionally act like decent human beings.”

Ryolde chuckles. “Don’t tell anyone. You’d ruin our reputation.” She rubs her fingers into Sirin’s scalp for a moment before asking her next question. “Where does this interest in Cairn come from?”

Sirin squeezes her knees closer to her chest. “We used to know each other, back at Fort Threshold. He was kind, and clever, and I thought we were friends. The lasting kind.” Ryolde tilts Sirin’s head down again, and Sirin huffs. “But then he left me there. And Nerat sent me off to sing up its troops.” Ryolde nudges Sirin’s chin, feeling the tightness of her jaw. Once Sirin has raised her head, Ryolde goes to work approaching the hair from the side, and the Archon of Song sighs, letting her jaw relax. “I used to pen him missives – each long and longing and poetic. Mostly about myself. But then…” Ryolde doesn’t allow her eyes to lift from Sirin’s hair to the rocky desolation around them. “Well, none of that matters anymore.”

Ryolde taps the top of Sirin’s helmet, and she dunks her head into the water again. She sits up again, settling against the rock, and Ryolde continues to work the soap into her hair – this time focusing on the parts concealed by the headdress. “That discovery, though… it still sounds like a pretty incredible thing to know about.”

Sirin shrugs, and starts to tilt her head before feeling the tug of Ryolde’s fingers in her hair. “I guess? I mean, sure, it’s something nobody else knows about yet. Except maybe Kyros.” Sirin brings a hand to the metal that adorns her skull. “I’m certain that weaving this song into my own music will strengthen it… or at least let more of my power slip through this stupid hat.” Even though she knows Sirin can’t see her, Ryolde raises an eyebrow, as if to say see? What did I tell you? Sirin pulls her shoulder back as she sits up straighter. “Who knows? Maybe the Oldwalls will hear my songs, and then I’ll be able to awaken Spires, too! Or sing Edicts! Or… both!”

Ryolde can’t stop the smile from spreading across her face as she lets her hands drop. “Your voice will shake the Tiers.”

Sirin turns to beam up at Ryolde. “The Tiers? Don’t underestimate me! I’ll shake this whole ugly world!” Her cheeks go red, if only slightly, and as if suddenly aware that Ryolde is done, Sirin ducks her head back into the water without giving Ryolde a chance to reply.

Ryolde waits until Sirin breaks the surface of the water. She imagines her smile is far softer than it has any right to be, but she’s getting old, and tired, and weary of pretending not to care about the people around her. “I look forward to seeing it.”

Sirin allows Ryolde to dry off her hair in silence. Ryolde knows she can probably do it herself, with the exception of the bits under her helmet, but there’s something about the simple nurturing act that settles something deep inside Ryolde. It’s only once they’re making to head back to the pool where Barik and Eb wait that Sirin speaks again.

“Truly, thank you for… all of this. I’m indebted to you. I’ll add my power to your cause. I promise.” Her eyes are shining earnestly, and Ryolde feels her heart break for the girl before her, who believes she must somehow pay others for showing her the smallest kindness.

Ryolde shakes her head. “If you truly wish to grant me your support, I would be honored to have it, but I want you to know something.” As she speaks, she makes sure to meet Sirin’s eyes. It’s important to her that this is clear. “You owe me nothing. Even if you were to never sing again, you will always have a place by my side and in my hall.” She allows a smile on her heart to slip through to her teeth. “I didn’t do any of this so that you’d owe me. I did it because I care about you, and… because you deserve better, better than the cruelty this world has shown you.”

Sirin’s eyes fill with water, and Ryolde can see what’s coming before she’s even moved. Sirin’s thin form collides with hers as she throws her arms around her. “Thank you,” Ryolde hears Sirin whisper in her ear, and she decides to ignore the way her voice shakes. The embrace is over before it’s even really begun, as Sirin pulls way, trying to wipe at her eyes with something resembling discretion. “You know,” she says, once she’s pulled her hand to her side, “we should probably go make sure Eb hasn’t murdered Barik or something.”

Ryolde nods, and clambers up the low cliff before reaching a hand back to help Sirin up. As they approach the other pool, she can see that Barik seems to have managed to get most of the grime off, but now he appears to be juggling a razor in one hand and a bar of soap in the other, struggling to give himself something resembling a haircut with exactly none of the necessary supplies. From where she lounges in the shallows, Eb’s response to the whole situation seems to be to laugh at him.

Ryolde sighs. “Barik, at this rate you’re going to kill yourself before you have even a half-decent haircut.” Wading out to where he stands, she holds out a hand with a flat look on her face. “Let me.”

“Oh, come on, Ryolde, let him struggle a bit longer. I think it’s funny to watch him fumble with his sword.” Ryolde just gives Eb a look.

Barik hesitates, his gaze darting to the bank and to the rocks surround them before landing back on Ryolde. “Binder, you don’t… there’s no… I’m perfectly capable-“

A huff of air escapes Ryolde’s nose. “Perfectly capable of what? Shaving yourself and cutting your hair with nary a flat service or a looking glass to be found for leagues around?” Barik at least has the grace to look cowed. “Just give me the razor and the soap. Do I have to make it an order?”

“Oh, please do!” Comes the call from where Eb sits, and Barik flushes.

“No,” he mutters, handing the razor and the soap to Ryolde. With the implements in hand, Ryolde scans the rocks around the edge of the pool. There are a couple that hang over the water, including the one Sirin’s made into her perch, dangling her legs into the water, but none of them are quite high enough…

“You know what? Here.” She presses the soap and the razor back into Barik’s palms. Barik, meanwhile, barely has time to look confused before Ryolde tugs him over to the rocks. Clambering out of the water, and spins a finger at Barik. “Turn around,” she instructs, and no sooner has he done so than she’s leapt from the rock and directly onto his shoulders.

He starts, and the air is filled with the sound of Sirin and Eb’s laughter. “Binder-“

Ryolde bats her hand against his head. “Oh, hush. I can’t help it that you’re too tall.” She holds a hand out over his shoulder. “Razor, please?”

He passes the blade up to her, but underneath her thighs, his shoulders are tense as stone. “Oh, relax, Barik. I’ve done this plenty of times before.” She leans back to examine the tangled mass that is his hair before deciding it’s probably easier to just cut off the matted bits and then go from there. “Did you know,” she says as she gets to work, “that before I came to Court, my hair had never even so much as seen a pair of shears?”

Sirin’s voice is deadpan. “I hate to break it to you, Archon, but hair can’t see anything.”

Ryolde just waves her free hand at her.

Eb just seems bemused. “That… sounds extraordinarily costly. I mean, how much soap do you need to wash hair that long anyway?”

Having sawed through the mats on one side of Barik’s head, Ryolde leans back to assess her progress. “Well, seeing as it reached the back of my thighs, quite a bit, I’d imagine. And finding a comfortable position to sleep in was a nightmare.”

“All so you could have some glorified status symbol? By the tides, but nobles are stupid.”

Ryolde shrugs. “What can I say? It was the style.” She chuckles under her breath. “It didn’t last long, anyway. All it took was one training session, and I snuck down to the mess to cut it with a kitchen knife.” As she lingers on the memory, she can feel the corners of her lips angling up. “That first haircut was a disaster – I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, the knife was dull, and I was attempting to use an overturned pan as a looking glass.” She leans forward, over Barik’s head. “Don’t worry, Barik, I’ve gotten much better at this since then.”

He just crosses his arms.

“Calio found me that evening and took pity on me. She showed me how to fix the mess I’d made of my hair, and even helped me cut it for the next few years, until I got the hang of it. It was ultimately a bit shorter than I would have liked, but that ended up being better anyway, and I’ve kept my hair like this ever since.” With one last tug, the final mat in Barik’s hair comes free, and all that’s left is to even everything up.

Once she’s done with his hair, Ryolde gestures to water. “Could you kneel down, Barik, and hand me the soap?” Barik does as he’s told with only the bare minimum of complaining, like he always has, and Ryolde is soon finished with his face as well. Before she finally has a chance to wash herself, she darts to her pack and pulls out one of her flat blades.

“Here,” she says, passing it to Barik. “What do you think?”

Barik squints somewhat into the glare as he tilts the dagger this way and that, trying to get a clear picture of what he now looks like. This is probably the first time he’s seen himself in almost three years, Ryolde thinks. The realization sinks into her chest like a rock in a pond.

When Barik looks back up, there’s a strange sheen of emotion behind his multicolored eyes. “Thank you, Archon.”

Ryolde shrugs as she smiles. “It’s nothing. I’m glad to help.”

Ryolde finishes cleaning herself in a hurry, and as they depart, she feels lighter than she has in days.